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,
writers who swat
them down and
shadows afford both
to care about