Conformity

The thick black robe he threw about
His shoulders just before he spoke
Had thin gray worms of crawling doubt
Within the lining of the cloak.

The sting of honeybees almost
Pierced the center of his spine;
He tripped upon the hem; a ghost
Clutched his feet like an ivy vine.

He was afraid to preach his creed,
Convention might defy its norms;
So he wrapped his soul in a spider web
And buried it deep in ghostly forms.