Make a plan, a master plan, you diabolic.

Intricate it seems when webs are laid
and dimmed reality
peers as poetry is in one’s head
never spoken, nor ever read.

‘Tis a veil to veil the veil revealed.

The bird to chirp by some design,
refrains to chirp at all, but instead
would orchestrate and catalog the voices of the dead,
giving names and titles to these unexpected offspring souls.

If truth is true and the truth of truth
is true,
is yet the truth of truth of truth still true
of truth of truth of truth?

The web, delicate and firm,
strand by strand is pulled.
A word is writ, ne’er spoken nor read
and laid beneath the earth.

n