Like a dove, a cloud,
An elegant suit,
A silver fox pelt—
A subtle shade, yes,
Collection of shadows,
Of soft-edged shadows,
But you don’t get there
By a recipe.
No mixologist
Can show you how much
Pure evil, pure good
You need to start with,
And worse, to get grey
You think you need white
And black, but you don’t,
And they’re morally
Mixed to begin with,
Blended and loaded,
With black so silky
It glistens and white
So dense it’s opaque.
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