Stitched white lips sewn from the unsweetened threads,
Spill forth cavalries of moldering roots.
It lying embedded, on tongue, lip, head.
With this web tangled branches silence fruits.
The spoiled children weave through lines of blame,
And blood birthed from work fore-gone stain white; red.
Lies told through lips of light leave lips to shame,
And from lip to stainéd lip, a truth is dead.
For now each web is another expense,
Lies no longer tell of hued lips, once white.
Currents drown the silenced in consequence.
The greatest, lies with me, a lightless sight
For the fruit lays spoiled by its own birth,
And I, the weaver, lay dead as spoilt earth.