Bauble

Every day

plucking at

golden thread.

Delicate.

–

Subtle line

from my head.

Life a twine.

Permenant.

–

One bad month,

a no good season

gives my nails

every reason.

–

Picking string

a habit now.

As much so

as breathing out.

–

Tracing each

glass fine line.

Immaculate.

Serpentine.

–

And I guess

this time next year

a full white beard

from ear to ear.

–

All that’s left

is memories

which we take

lives to weave.