The Weaver’s Lost Daughter

The season determines the colour:

today’s season is black.

In the eye of the blast there has been calm for about two seconds - the time it

takes for a kite to tangle in a tree - but it’s felt like years spiralling, this time is

bottomless until the last fibre is in place.

Simple as a worm on the end of a line:

that little tug.

Little beginnings, cocoons are the byproduct of the secretions of the innocent,

designed to protect, imitated by 1) blue plastic (curling itself in surrender) on

2) a hook (demanding shelter), two things which cannot rot.

Snares are the newest trend:

fairytales dangled on ribbon.

The future often unspools slack upon dreamers, heavy intestinous ropes bound

for burial carry the illusion of momentum experienced on the road.

A village of knots:

housed in cosy jacquard cards.

Desire paths forged by utility of commute are tangled in complaints as the

string of a balloon slips from a hand and unleashes itself to the sky.

The great coming-together:

is, for some, crashing back down to earth.

One wave passes through another on its way out to sea – and this is how I

wanted to let go, thorns of sleep are twining across my childhood room

and I am emptied of it.