The unknown stands in front of him. 

She’s baring fangs. He fears its feel.

But, really, in the hate, not true,

He’s fearing dreads of future’s deal. 

For when he fears, she bares, not all,

control may sever soul’s delight.

He hides the thing that he can’t thrall,

This better truth, he can’t make right.  

He renders what is simpler, then, 

Then easier is what he stews,

But other reals are sweeter zen,

These other deals are better trues. 

This truthfulness he holds so close

Is only real until it’s gone. 

For even though it’s felt in gross,

then, better reals, alive, will spawn.