Flawed

Words like paint,
Spill to the witness
Drained and drenched
With truths realized
The poet cast his soul
In the image of Muse
Yearning, a word of conformation,
Like stats
Witness reader puzzles,
Color blind
Tasting notes offered by writ,
Deaf tones
Unable and unwilling
To see beyond yesterday
Feeling the texture
By smell,
Ahhhh!
There it is,
The common among the brilliant
Something to understand
Simply stated
As the weaver feared the flaw is noticed
We've been found out.