a complicated series of knots by Angela Thomas how quickly we sew up what had been opened, exposed and raw in the harsh light of day. we close up and hold our swollen hands tight to something closer than ourselves. i want to fill the awful silence with words, but somehow the only sound i can make is the soft swish of alpaca silk yarn around a cold crochet needle, five feet deep into a scarf i've made at least fifteen ways by now. each time i unravel it, the yarn loses its shape a little more. it becomes, i don't know, softer somehow, but also tighter. a chinese paper trap. i just knit and knit and sometimes they say that a true artist is one that knows when to just walk away. when to make that last stitch, sew it all back up together, a final imperfect masterpiece - close that last hole. put away the tinicture and heal yourself. we hold a pained hand to our chest because deep inside is where it actually hurts. 11/14/2007 Author's Note: to g. by c. Posted on 11/14/2007 Copyright © 2024 Angela Thomas Member Comments on this Poem Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 11/14/07 at 05:33 AM I like the ending. There's a really nicely captured sadness to it. Return to the Previous Page   pathetic.org Version 7.3.2 May 2004 Terms and Conditions of Use 0 member(s) and 2 visitor(s) online All works Copyright © 2024 their respective authors. Page Generated In 0 Second(s)