The lies that spin like cobwebs from your lips
Begin to dim the colours of your eyes;
Your stories weave a tapestry of rips,
Which, like a hangman's shroud, cloaks truth's demise.

Caught in your sticky spider's-web of lies.
Drawn by the half-truths that you give as bait,
Your victims thrash like captured butterflies,
Like broken puppets gripped by strands of Fate.

The porcelain identities you wear,
Expensive masks you bought with other's pain
Seem to decrease the weight of guilt you bear—
Convinced the world, not you, has gone insane.

The falsehoods that you weave undo your sight;
You reach for darkness in the name of light