Just a sock
A black sock
Made of the wool from a sheep that she was destined to be
A sock with a small hole
Still wearable if you cover the right bits
The more it walks the spirals of the mind, the bigger the hole becomes.
Now one full toe is exposed
She hides the hole like a dark little secret
Hidden beneath the shoes of her smile
The Japanese say it's polite to wear socks
But she didn't know how to be polite
She wasn't blessed with the gift of the bonsai
No harmony, peace or order of thoughts
The matching sock has long been lost
She wonders if anyone else can see the chaos she walks on
The unraveling she hides
Just a tattered sock with holes
Floating around the washing machine
Waiting for the cycle to finish.