Bristle, Barley, Farina, Farinaceous

One can't seem to explain to anyone
Clearly enough that an explanation,
Whether or not it is a likely one,
Is not necessarily a story.

An explanation is like a lyric
Daubing camouflaging narrative bits
On its carapace, then scuttling away
When necessary, still, its own being,

Not worth consuming for the camouflage,
Only for the sweet meats under the shell.
Pointy, perhaps, is the self-disguiser
But surely bristling with coarser vigor

Is the disguise, the salad, the fluffed starch.
One I explains nothing to no one. Two
Eyes, true, could explain more, but perspective,
Likewise, requires no narrative, none.