A Lesson in Bitter Tinctures (Series on Liberals #4)

They sip sweetness, tongues never brined,  

borrowed solace from orchards unscarred.  

A softness flutters in their marrow,  

wrapped like silk in their uncut wings.  

But what blooms without the frostbite,  

without the vinegar steeped in seasons?  

Beneath their lacquered, righteous creeds,  

the soil hungers for a blood-heavy storm.  

Let bitterness drizzle down like sermons,  

let them taste the ash of their altars.  

Only then, gloves shed, teeth bared  

can they unspool the knots of disaster.  

Rescuers rise from their own ruin,  

hands callused with salt, fingers bitten.  

The mirror turns; self-saviors stagger  

bearing balm brewed from what they burned.