5

Can’t you help, 

but weave webs,
 with pauses and words,
 graceful or gross,
 desperate or cruel,
 web within a web,
 life made of lives?
 Sophistry might be fun,
 or reflex like cocking a gun;
 but a touch of truth,
 accidental or otherwise,
 known or unknown,
 will burn down the anchors,
 that hold the kingdom,
 of your mind,
 suspended with words;
 trivial at first,
 momentous later.
 If I were to weave too,
 versions of truth;
 emotions twilling with reason,
 mundane with mystic,
 complete in parts,
 never the whole;
 would you bother,
 to look through them,
 and jump into the fire,
 or will a version suffice?
 
 T