Threads of Words

(written April 2025)

My fingers are spindles.
I sew words to the page.
Coloured threads convey every stitch of thoughts
that finds its way onto the rich tapestry of my brain.
My lines are not the needle you search for among the hay.
I am an open book.
Each page is a memory lodged within
my mind or a wishful dream.
Sometimes, the spindles make my words bleed.
Crimson red stains the fibre of your being.
Salty tears make the fabric wet.
I only use two different spools of colour.
Red or black.
Beautiful butterflies never hover long enough to catch.
And I am but a moth wearing pain on my back.

Copyright © 2025 Ephemeral Encounters
All Rights Reserved