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