She stayed up quite late many nights
Pricking her fingers raw sometimes
Telling herself that it did indeed matter.
She would thread a ribbon with such care that it seemed as if the ribbon was her own life
And each stitch with such precision!
Lined with words, with nouns, the adjectives kept together just perfect
Yet no one would wear her sorry stories
No, no one read the tear-stained woven fabrics
In such brilliant hues that even a cardinal would be jealous.
Scarlet after all is such a lovely color.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 8:23 PM UTC
She stayed up quite late many nights
Pricking her fingers raw sometimes
Telling herself that it did indeed matter.
She would thread a ribbon with such care that it seemed as if the ribbon was her own life
And each stitch with such precision!
Lined with words, with nouns, the adjectives kept together just perfect
Yet no one would wear her sorry stories
No, no one read the tear-stained woven fabrics
In such brilliant hues that even a cardinal would be jealous.
Scarlet after all is such a lovely color.
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