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Poetic T Jan 2016
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,
The tales we weave
seem to only breathe.
They become the
moments of bittersweet
bliss and change.

They are meant to hide
our lies and
our deceits
And they work.
On anyone we seek to
delude.

Until the moment when
the teeth gnash,
the hands clench,
and our tales give way
**to consequence
Do not distribute or use my work with out my explicit permission.
Ryan V Jul 2015
You sit behind a glorious loom
Weaving and tugging the threads
Not of silk or cloth
But of the fabric of reality
You manipulate them
Steadily weaving my dreams
Into a blanket of memories
To keep us warm at night
As you are plucking the strings
Not of guitar or harp
But those of my heart
Strumming a tune known to all
That sweet melody
That sacred hymn
The song within.
Lauren Leal Jun 2015
My mind is a vast universe
With words and rhymes and so diverse
Which galaxy will I traverse
Must go forward not in reverse

I shall find and collaborate
the right words to elaborate
The message I wish to divulge
For hungery minds to indulge

But these words are spread afar
Dancing and gleaming off every star
But some get lost and forgotten
My rhymes misbegotten

But with all the time and space
I must build my base
and slowly weave these words with grace
With a piece of my heart to trace
Me trying to peice together who I am with the woven words of my poems found in the mass universe of my mind.
Nicole Dawn May 2015
When you found me there crying,
You said, "What can I do?
I said, "Weave me a rope,
Something to hold onto."

"Use a few strands of hope,
And a couple of joy.
A bundle of friendship,
And one strand of peace."

Yes,
Please weave me a rope,
And if it stays strong,
I can fall from the cliff,
But I will forever know;
*I will never fall.
Attineo Jan 2015
You are the gold thread;
Life is a yard of fabric
You can choose to weave.
Other threads weaving
May intertwine with your frame,
But darkness severs,
And light may accept them home.
Though the end is far,
You cannot wait to live life;
Weave your tapestry,
Run the line and chase the sun
Until it westward sets.
Light that grasps won’t let go;
dark that reaches can be thrown back.
mark john junor Nov 2014
my heart is a child
holding a bead
weave that onto a necklace with your finest golden threads
weave my dreams into the fabric of your life
can you do it without breaking me
can you do it without making me silent when i should be singing
turn me on when i'm cold and alone
make the stars shine tonight
can you make the stars shine for me
can you take my breath away without taking hope with it
can you be the only one i see
can you be that fragile whisper that is home to my run away train
be the place where my heart stops
skips a thousand beats
one for each delicate smile i see in you
my heart is a child holding a bead
can you be the one to weave me back into the fabric of life
be my rainbow
be that smile that saves me
Riot May 2014
if girls care so much about their hair
why do they take someone elses?
Elaenor Aisling May 2014
Alone she weaves her tangled web
Twisting, tying, all amiss
and she sees not the darkened threads
that twine about her wrists.

A single light in a darkened room
one window one mirror, little sight
to the world outside her bower wall
Blurred separation between day and night.

Her head swirls with tangled threads
forgotten thoughts and anguish low
the monotony of a thousand days
left to weave and wind and sew

Sighs escape now from her lips
those ruby lips, once known by kings
now known to only lament and sobs
for what she lost in love-lorn pining.

"Faithless have I been, O father."
she breathes at morning prayers
as pearl beads slip through milk white hands
and dust hangs about the air.

When all is done, and mass is sung
she retires to her cell
once again to sew and weave
her rich and long, sad, tale.

First she finds the pale while thread
and then she finds the blue
And quickly, with her shaking hands
weaves the face she once knew.

She weaves the gown of green she wore
on the fated wedding day
and adds the flaxen hair he praised
When laced with the flowers of May.

At last she finds the golden thread,
but pauses, silent, the room a mess
she lays the golden spool aside
and kneels before the long locked chest.

With trembling hands, and gleaming eyes
she lifts the lid, on the life she once had
A rush of air and dust and mould
and feeling, at once, joyful and sad.

First she takes the bright blue gown
and then she takes the green,
finds the jewels her mother wore
it's all where it should have been.

Within the dusty corner dark,
the twilight fading, sun going down
she sees the gleam of gold once more
and takes from the depths her golden crown.

In the flickers of the candlelight
the jewels they sparkle once again,
And all the memories come rushing back
From childhood days to the kingdom's end.

Tears are falling from her eyes
when again she takes the golden thread
and reverently she weaves the crown
upon the figure's head.

At last she's cut the final string
and takes a step back from the frame
she sees her life before her eyes,
and feels the tears come again.

There Arthur stands, in kingly garb
His soft eyes staring back at her
and in his arms, her younger self,
she remembers, how happy they once were.

To her left stands Lancelot
his shining armor gleaming bright
his pleading gaze finds her again
with the love that turned to blight.

Between these two men she still stands
Two heros, once in brotherhood bound
She chose the Knight above absent King
and three hearts were trampled into the ground.

Memories swirl about her head
as she takes the knife flashing flint,
and drives the blade into the silk
Till every thread once whole, lies rent.
Took a few cues from the Lady of Shallot, plus smatterings of several different Arthurian traditions. It is said that Guinevere joined a convent after Arthur died-- hence the mass. Tapestry making was a common pastime for noble women--I'm not sure about nuns, but it's not as though she were an ordinary nun.
Matthew Mar 2014
Swinging ponytail
Clipboard, high heels, black shades, nails
The weave to end all

— The End —