The loom on which
I weave
these threads
is more foreboding
than machinery
These fibres,
neither silken
nor wool,
cottoned
from misadventures,
miscommunication,
and inner unraveling
The mind,
an unpredictable
seamstress,
fabricates a flawed tale –
silver threads of wisdom
sewn between precarious lines –
consumer be wary.
(Image created by AI. This is an edited version of the original.)
I dwell in mediocracy
where Larkspur takes a spotlight
and sunsets enforce sleep
A background figure, I hide
behind mundane assertions,
practice subtlety
Lies I tell myself, of course,
any reader knows – I decry
normality, as passion is my way.
(Tuesdays I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Anticipate salvation –
the stork master
spews cryptic babble
Is there hope to be had?
Don’t speak forked-tongue
cannot decipher the yarn
Suspect time alone holds truth
experience will betray the lies
integrity winning out in the end.
(Image mine)
I trace the fibre
of each of your lies,
note the intricacy
of their overlapping –
marvel at the depths
of your scheming,
still suffering aftershock
of deception’s braid.
(Tuesdays I borrow from my Twitter poetry. Visit me @Vjknutson. Image from personal collection.)
When their hot tongues lie,
I cry bitter milk –
time can rip at friendly water,
blow him from my sea,
though his shot a show –
am so blue,
a bare want,
in those lies dressed.
(Poem inspired by the offerings of Magnetic Poetry online.)
He recalls we were gorgeous,
pleased me like an egg – fast
Why lie to men about
what blow must skin cry?
We are black from mist above moan,
I bare my drive as pink,
sit through summer of aching,
show my gown sweet…
though never did sleep.
(Fridays are magnetic poetry. Â Find it online at magnetic poetry.com. Â Love it if you’d join me.)
One Woman's Quest 