The Fray
Silken strands of words
Wove their way through my tweedy defenses
And I began to weave a story
So large it smothered my senses.
Ignoring the fraying ends that melted in flame
I thought you would patch the holes.
Instead, mine grew deeper.
Light a match
Burn the stack down
I found the needle I lost.
3 thoughts on "The Fray"
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burnt silk and hay
tweedy needle.
nice work.
Tweedy defenses!
I, too, love “my tweedy defenses.” Great poem!