a descent into poetry insanity |
| her fingers twist the web— laying spokes like the sun’s rays against the silk. her needle is lightning— pulling the lines into a flower petal or a stalk of corn or the oven where she bakes. no paper. no stamp to tell her where the spokes should gather or where they should fan apart. the world is her pattern. and in the end, she cuts the anchor— thread by thread, until all that is left is her dream— twisted into being. line count: 21 Author's Note ▶︎ |