Ripped into strips of rough cut sinew
Glittered in silver crisscross lines
Ready to be dipped in thick glue
And rebuilt layer by meticulous layer. 
This new shape is for the fickle faith
That is chanted until made belief
Or assumed to be the matter's fact - 
The curves are chosen in this lie
To fit the outline it previously outgrew. 
The substance that the years cultivated
Do not fulfill the quoted order of being
So are left to rot in the garbage
While the adhesive sets atop mourning
To hide it from the surface view.