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.
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