...She says:
"Maybe you were made, for something greater."
...But her eyes, are sad.
Breathless, as she watches me, weave.
I spin a yarn, or two,
the ***** of my feet
paddling,
at the treadles,
in rhythmic kicks.
My loom, weaves lore
into cinematic panels
and my audience, is
spellbound.
Film noir;
penny dreadfuls, in a ticking frame.
...I don't know if she's come to notice, yet
how all the textiles, are in black,
and grey.
I scutter, across
the tapestry, of time.
The warp beam,
keeps tension
on the swatch,
of cloth.
The nimbleness, of mind...
drawn, into rib stitch
seed stitch,
keeps the observer,
captivated.
The steely exo-,
which has long drawn, the ire,
of men
draws admiration, now,
having taken untold years,
to crack.
But it is cracking, at last
and she's beginning to see, how
just a finger, slamming
into the soft underbelly,
could ******* me.
Does she also see
the red hourglass,
tatted...
on my lower abdomen?
...Life taught me, to craft, the ripcord,
but, never...the parachute.
I hang, in suspense,
on a pendulum swing.
...What hands, will catch me,
should I fall?
...Whose fingers, will untie,
the knot,
if I should jump?
May 9
May 9, 2026 at 4:24 AM UTC
...She says:
"Maybe you were made, for something greater."
...But her eyes, are sad.
Breathless, as she watches me, weave.
I spin a yarn, or two,
the ***** of my feet
paddling,
at the treadles,
in rhythmic kicks.
My loom, weaves lore
into cinematic panels
and my audience, is
spellbound.
Film noir;
penny dreadfuls, in a ticking frame.
...I don't know if she's come to notice, yet
how all the textiles, are in black,
and grey.
I scutter, across
the tapestry, of time.
The warp beam,
keeps tension
on the swatch,
of cloth.
The nimbleness, of mind...
drawn, into rib stitch
seed stitch,
keeps the observer,
captivated.
The steely exo-,
which has long drawn, the ire,
of men
draws admiration, now,
having taken untold years,
to crack.
But it is cracking, at last
and she's beginning to see, how
just a finger, slamming
into the soft underbelly,
could ******* me.
Does she also see
the red hourglass,
tatted...
on my lower abdomen?
...Life taught me, to craft, the ripcord,
but, never...the parachute.
I hang, in suspense,
on a pendulum swing.
...What hands, will catch me,
should I fall?
...Whose fingers, will untie,
the knot,
if I should jump?
In Greek mythology, Arachne was challenged by the goddess Athena to a weaving contest. Her skill, however, was unmatched.
After the beating Arachne took, which led to her taking her life, Athena turned her into a spider, so she could go on hanging, and weaving, into eternity.
It's through this lens I've chosen to examine my own thoughts, experiences and the subsequent events.
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