It was a gift

I pounded to pastel its softness
I took to turning, twisting, hoping.
Turning Left, turning Right.

Turn again Whittington thou unworthy
citizen. The bleed of red fills my weeping
palm....my mantra...Accountability.

I twist, contort, deform,
Oh the tortuous morphing to release
the Truth.

My crepuscular hold to wring one Lie
from the sealed lips of denial
before the year's end.