Dool Beats

My Truth is fluid.
It sprays from the cool, corroded top erratic and uneven
It drips with incessance, disregard and defiance
It's there to be turned, but it won't be twisted; it won't yield
My Truth is a Goddess blinded to the toils of a harsh physical scene
With silken bands across the lids of her sea-green eyes
Her intuition smooths the balance, forever teetering from one end to the other
A constant state of flux
My Truth is a paradox.
It declares a case that contradicts like duel fish attached at their side scales, forever swimming in the other's direction
Old friends, the fish, old friends gettin' on just fine; only need a fresh scene every now and then and a change of the water
My Truth is a level.
Where construction workers engineer common grounds and sturdy bridges of understanding that span across to every conceivable direction
Held with the tarzan glue of empathy
The nails of understanding
Steel girders of compassion
White, sweet smelling paint of peace
And a gleaming varnish of pathos
My Truth is real.

Can you dig?