Red, blue, green, purple, black, and white
water stained colors across paper
then lifting and pulling and dragging away
spirals. circles. round and round again
clouds against green and blue skies
and stars against soft velvet black
I always wondered what pinned them in place
maybe it's a thread,
wounded tightly by god's hands.
but maybe he pricked his finger on the thorn of the wheel
and fell asleep for a thousand years
these are the spirals, and the splatters of paint
that calms the beating in my chest
of the prisoner stuck in a cell, locked away
redo it, restart it, spiral again
over and over and over til the end
soon i'll build a bridge, held up by the stars
and from then comes the silver strings
tied and knotted and tangled once more
maybe I could untie it but my fingers get caught
and up i'll go
to the seat of the threading, then to the story of the loom
while the god is still behind me
sleeping or not....
maybe I could thread a little longer...
i could wind spirals and spirals
upon lives and lives
and not just in deep red, on paper or stone or skin
but spirals
carved upon the sleeping god's bones