she moved her fingers, spirituel,
intertwining fraying threads with fingers
and tying loose ends with thought. thinking
slowly, her fingers-flirting alabaster,
fumble; deliberately,
the fabric slips into the space
reigned by gravity.
there is a comfort in the governance,
a solace in constancy,
yet only another prison from which we seek liberty.
building castles in the sky;
head in clouds, mind in Phaeton flight.
she anneals her pain
but even imaginations kiln
cannot cauter the sanguinary truth
of her reality.
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