Letras
Whispers invoke the
artists of this tragically seemless, ill fated tapestry,
blistered fingers are tending their loom.
She collects the strands to braid into life.
Logging the weft of an ageless,
woven infinity,
countless raw fibers are clawing the frame.
A woman's work is never done,
but the final stitch has got to come,
and so three witches contend to slice the very last thread
(that you curse, curse constantly)
But nothing's immortal,
and comfort is not guaranteed--
a yearling who bears our sincere passions is chosen,
frozen and quivering,
like a thread in the wake of a blade.
So we compromise, so we sacrifice.
Compromise nothing,
but that which secures a comfortable life,
risk as the indication of a healing sacrifice.
Destroy the altar
whose boundaries tides will never exceed,
ignite the pyres
underneath a sedated mythology.
Five decades his lifetime,
and his life's work is just fading scratches in stone.
She tends the numerals,
counting fingers, counting her toes.
Keeping track of the time racing, years wasting
(dance to the sound of his weight bearing back breaking)
infinite ages the length of this quilt's making.
And we dance, we dance in the stronghold...
That you curse, curse constantly,
of the needle's sheen.
Do you feel this thin strand resting in a pinch?
That's the thread that you curse, curse constantly.
An eternal patch
on a quilt that hangs
from a wall in a throw frought with our decay...
Remember forever until it goes away,
from six states away,
five years of guilt postmarked
four days before my escape.
All I ever asked was for a clean break.
In the first nervous light of the day,
collecting the novels whose scribes sought to keep me contained.
All I ever asked was for a clean break.