His soul was woven
From a fool's whispers
By the hands of a ghost
On a loom of lies
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
His condemnation
Was not so much
Predicated on the Lord
Or what part of his body
The Devil had enjoyed
eaten and spit upon the street
The whispers
The echos of whispers
Troubled him the most
Especially at night
When light breezes
Muted the voices
In an interruptive cadence
Leaving the words unconnected
The burden
His own
To fill in the blank spaces
Connecting the dots
With a broken pencil
And an eraser
Worn to its metal edge