There’s a mask to my demeanour, deadly spiders behind my exterior. 

Their cobwebs are clearer than transparent environments, 

spinning silk of rejected ilk and 
whomever else desires it. 

There’s a thousand lonely roads I could walk alone,
but only one has end
(I could never quite aquire yellow bricks) that
doesn’t result in moral debt.

Is my turn to let what little self-respect remains
abstain, live out some
circumspect fairy tale? 

Have my spiderwebs come to at last be hanged? 

No, because I’ve been frail and cornered like
house flies in a horror show of eight legged diets, while 

ecosystems riot around me; but never was I more cognizant of the masks we all wear,

of spiders,
writers who swat
them down and
the austerity
shadows afford both
to care about
their prey.


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