Had a kite
colourful sight
swishing and swirling
and fluttering so high

craning my neck
looked at my kite
he looked so grand
I felt a rush of pride

flew him high
flew him wide
felt him dip down
gazing at me
what more I want?
he is mine

held the threads
that connected me and him
had the total control
just a tug will have him snug...

Sudden swish
another kite
not so grand
came to his side.

thought will play
a game of war
fun to watch him
coil her pretty neck

thought they were fighting
as he tried to pull her
and she fought too
swaying and twirling

as i watched
she gained control
saw him slipping
going her way.

I tried to right him.
but before i knew
he stopped fighting
losing deliberately

i knew that moment
he fell for her
she charmed him
she wooed him
followed him with zest.

with a slight dip
he looked at me
it was that moment
he chose her for me...

the threads were cut
he left with her
No backward glance
not a moment of regret

watched him fly by
dancing a passion dance
coiled to each other
she breathing his breath

My thread to sanity
opted to leave me
I stood still feet firmly planted
gazing at him
with a loose thread in my hand.

I stitched each of them on to me, knitted
It tight on my flesh. I bleed for a moment
But it was just another etched on my flesh.

Each perforation was another that joined my flesh,
Entwined on my soul I made their hair in to fine
Cotton and each was given a place upon my being.

"Eye,
      "Neddle,
                    "Backstitch­,
                                     "Scissor,
                                                   "Seam,

A honour of their offering was felt as I seeped on
Their twine. Pain was a lust that was sort but
Never harvested and my culling was full.

Flesh was just moment of time aging ever moment
Decaying since birth. Their hair lived longer than
What was but food for thought now no more.

My limbs like a puppet on stings, but I am their keeper
Of life on me, in me they live on. I stich their memory
So many colours do  I weave on to myself.

Blonde,
             Brown,
                         Chestnut,
                                     Ginger

But the ones that are lucky that never grace my being,
They are those of least crowns on their scalp.
I am one of such no hair on myself. But weaves I
Sculpt upon myself, they live on even though bodies rest.


I have many stitches on my flesh of weavings not my own,
But their essence will always be here as long as I live on.
Seeing those moments which will be etched on myself,
I will weave all into the picture etched on my skin.

*"A stitch in time ebbs your existence your soul to mine,

You locked your heart away from the world
and gave me the only key. I kept it on
thread, close to my heart, to hold for eternity.

When I opened my eyes, the key was gone
and you were falling away. I never
found out what you did with the key
for that heart I led astray.

Old and stained,
ragged and worn,
with holes and even
unraveled and torn.
Love is like your favorite sweater,
well used and seen all kinds of weather.
After a few years
and several loose threads,
there may be holes that need mending.
Don't get too worried my dear,
as long as the time that you're spending
is carefully piecing the threads back together.
Love is like your favorite sweater.

Remember to put the pins
Back in the pin cushion
After you put all the pieces back together,
Don't drop them!
You wouldn't wish to step
On someone else's leftover pins,
Or pins you left over from fixing
Someone else.

The past unfurls
With silver memories
Like messy cloth,
Tarnished or frayed;
Each life woven with yours
And so many paths crossing
Twining over and under
A stitch dropped, or added
Shadowed or shining
And all being woven
With the thread you are spinning,
Spinning,


Spun

Skewer my body over the open flame. Rub the coals on my skin.
I will let you.
I will let you to prove that I am human too.
Rake the charred flesh from my bones to reveal that they are broken.
I told you so.
I told you so many times that the hypocrisy is natural. Flowing in our human hearts. Not the spirit. Not the loom. Not the quest of which was given to whom?
You may ask me.
You may ask me who; and I would tell you, "Me and You".
And the quest of which is spoken is to be human too.

Some days
All that holds me is a thread
And there I stay dangling

Some days
The scissors close in
And nearly cut me down

Some days
I struggle to hold on
And sometimes I wish to slip
But I don't.

I hold on
To my little thread
As the scissors close in

Helpless
Stranded
Alone

But then I see a light at the end of the tunnel
It tells me to hold on
And it keeps my little thread away from the scissors

Though I'm stuck here
All alone
I've found something
To call home