There are hours of intrigue when the night is dark and
I’m alone moving along the thread of my life,
looking at the days of exile seems foreign now,
I see the scars,
still.
The pain is not tangible any longer,
just like the touch of a lover gone away,
it’s only memory that stitches it all together,
still.
I see faces and places like paintings, I was there, but I’m not,
the stitches do bind all the little bits when the night is dark and cold,
a good tug pulls it all together,
still.
The threads like webs weave an image larger than I can see,
me strung out across the field of imagination,
of life and living, here and there.
Alone,
the worlds of dream weep,
swaying,
steeping frigid space,
light flashes,
long and bright,
then gone.
There are hours when the light shows the thread,
nights when I feel connected by things dark and floating outward,
memories of scars and love that
with a tug do come back,
still.