The scratches that flicker the surface,
They are unforgivable flaws.
We spin a web of lies in its face.
We risk choking under its gauze.
So cunning the spider is.
Writing new names for the pig.
It just keeps spinning its gossamer tale.
When has the threadwork become simple print?
When have we begun to forget those flickers?
Our hands should clutch at its grasp,
Pull and tear.
We gasp for sweet air.
Our flaws left exposed.