Delicate threads, woven intricately
wind and loop, creating endless
hidden patterns, in our tapestries.

I sit, my head bowed upon my chest
arms and legs crossed; protection
against a reply at my own request.

A ponderous and gnarled finger
traces a winding and worn thread
pausing to caress the snarls, to linger.

It stops, a blunt and withered nail
points surely to a prominent knob
face trembling in a smile so frail.

She raises moist and filmy eyes
to stare past me, past my youth
as quivering lips part on a sigh.

I stiffen; that single, soft inhalation
causes my body to ache and tense
to lean away in sheer desperation.

Fear, the last vestige of protection,
warns my unfaithful heart
against the horror of past rejection.

Yet my aching heart treacherously
lifts to soar along the worn threads
eager to know, to realize my identity.

Her words contradict her fragility
sharp and precise as lashes
gouging soul and body similarly.

Still, I listen impatiently; ever utterance
engraves upon the walls of my heart
the twisting pain is bloody penance.

Abruptly, the lips part on a soft sigh
the twisting thread has worn its course
reaching the scarring end of her reply.

I stare, shocked, at her powdery skin
drapes of delicate, drooping folds
around eyes now dead from within.

And I, I walk away; deceptively steady
despite the trail of blood I leave,
staining the threads weaving endlessly.