Mountain, built of wood and covered in silk
The fine covering serves to disguise
The hollow middle, full of devils and thieves,
And others of their ilk.
The tongues of the traitors lie and deceive
Droplets of honey and milk drip
And fall, the false pearls which glimmer brightly
Mimicking dewdrops on the tangled webs they weave.
This delusion is alluring, at faraway glance,
Seem not to be wanting, or lacking, for truth
And a fly twists in the center, all bulbous eyes watching,
Waiting for the victim, their savior, to advance.
There is no arachnid. The mountain is still.
Dreams seep through the cloth, Woven by malice.
And the thoughts are transformed,
To torment, to twist, and to serve out Its will.