The Vignette Vault Of Veracity

Webstring Logic

Gather round, larvae-truth got teeth.
This sermon's set in septic wreaths,
where wings beat scripture in a cryptic breeze
and decay plays choir beneath carrion leaves.

Swat team symposium-flies in a fleet.
Too many buzzin' around the same old meat.
They confuse communion with community.
Unaware the pews are spun in eulogy.

Sticky talk in the molasses light,
wired to swarm toward the overripe.
They orbit rot like it owes 'em gold-
a loyalty to mold, truth sold for the fold.

And when they dance in them clustered gears,
a predator perks up its puppet ears.
See, a web's not just a home for the host-
it's a trap for the boastful, bold, and engrossed.

"Bees don't have to explain to flies
why honey tastes better than shit."
That's written in the margins of wisdom,
but flies never read the script.

They sniff for thrills in the landfill lit,
while bees build empires on nectar lips.
One moves silent with a purpose flame,
the other dies loud in a trap it named.

It's a parable packed in paradox stew:
Flies crave crowds 'cause the world feels huge.
But the more they gather, the louder the hue-
till the silk-slick predator gets a clearer view.

It don't need hate, don't need bait.
Just patience and a space to wait.
Eight legs like philosophies mid-writ-
a prophet with venom in a venomless pitch.

Circle gets tighter.
Whispers get spider.
One by one, they vanish mid-hyper.
Gone mid-rant, mid-joke, mid-clap,
mid-"Yo, we lit!"-nah, you just snacks.

The web's not cruel, it's ancient code.
It hears the hymns of those too bold.
It feels vibration, not intention-
and it don't care for your conventions.

A loner fly might pass unseen-
too soft for the string, too lean for the scene.
But stack 'em up like a chorus line,
and the whole net hums like a neon sign.

Call it nature.
Call it a trap.
Call it the way that the scales collapse
when weight is mistaken for strength
and volume is mistaken for depth.

I seen a bee hit silence like gospel,
paint a path in pollen apostle.
No flex, no need to shout.
Just honey in the comb and a clean way out.

So while they debate who flaps best,
who posts, who flexed, who's next,
some of us dig in the garden unbothered-
stacking sunbeams while the rest get slaughtered.

Final note from the ghost in the ink:

Not all who gather are wise.
Not all that echoes is truth.
And not every feast is meant for the mouth.
Sometimes, it's bait-
wrapped in the rhythm of the uncouth.