Words.
Our words start clean,
Simple,
Crisp,
Smooth,
Valid,
Pure;
Like printer paper.

Occasionally, eavesdropping ears listen in.
The sleuths agree to fold our conversation.
They adjust,
Shape,
Transfigure,
Crease,
Alter;
Our speech.

A bird they spawn,
Soaring through receivers of many.
Everyone will see this delusive creature,
A falsified orientation of actuality.

Our words are victims of origami.
Truth warped into inaccuracies.

I reach for the flying animal,
Beyond my grasp.
Too many have seen it,
It’s too late.
Even if I’d been able to grip the bird,
Bring it down.
Contain it.
The words are spread too far.
If I tried to unravel the creature,
The paper would be smudged,
Crumbled.

Our words are no longer ours.
Our chatter has succumb to reformation.