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that which is thrown across us;
by Sophia Gracewe are primitive cloth, words
tightly bound, truth caught
between the warp and weft
of us. it is true that our
hands are sore, rubbed raw
with the ever-quickening
pulling and tightening,
twisting and casting away.
it was fate, perhaps? perhaps
not but still, know this;
that which is thrown across us,
the straight and narrow of
our lives, is faltering, the
structure unsound, unraveling.
whisps of cotton thread and
we all will fall to dust.
01/28/2009 Author's Note: it is what it is.
Posted on 01/28/2009
Copyright © 2025 Sophia Grace
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Gabriel Ricard on 01/28/09 at 06:14 PM I suppose so. I really like it, for what that's worth. |
| Posted by George Hoerner on 01/28/09 at 08:45 PM Nice write lady. And the cards certainly seem to be stacked so they can be blown over. |
| Posted by Steven Kenworthy on 01/30/09 at 01:24 AM fashion versus love in the all out grudge match...or did they sew themselves into each other? |
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