Nasty

Nasty

In the dank back‑alley of a fog‑laden night,
A nasty wind sighs through cracked panes,
Turning tea leaves to bitter dregs,
And the lamplight flickers like a reluctant apology.

It creeps into the market stall,
Where overripe fruit sullies the stall‑holder’s smile,
And the scent of burnt toast lingers,
A reminder that even comfort can turn sour.

Yet in the harshness there is a strange honesty,
A nasty truth that strips away pretence,
Like a blunt knife that cuts through veneer,
Leaving only the raw, unvarnished grain beneath.

So we raise a chipped mug to the nasty,
Not to revel in its spite, but to acknowledge
That shadows give depth to the light,
And without the bite of nastiness,
Sweetness would have nothing to contrast.