• I’m supposed to be of grace,
    But they call me uncouth.

    My trail of untold
    Secrets mists the prairielands.
    I reek of rot and sweat,
    The same that’s on their hands.

    Cynically,
    I weave spider webs
    Of paranoia,
    Catching and releasing.

    Like the ocean tide
    I surge and ebb,
    Dictating their guilt,
    Silently teasing.

    I vanish without a trace,
    And they call me the truth.