pretends (as anxiety ends)
the spool will still unravel
leaving only empty spaces.
Racing to reel thread in again
won't make gaps invisible
or lost found
or wrong right.
World grinds down to dust
the collective ambitions of all
who've chanted hopes to an
who've waited (with fidgeting digits)
for response from nameless,
faceless crowds of anonymous naysayers
chewing bits of innocent flesh for fun,
Split hairs seem silly in the fray of
in the wake of mourning
possibilities bottled like a ship
sitting empty in smoky glass
or a fish-less bowl --
blue stones strewn about for effect.
syllables spill, pour,
gush furious across pages
already covered in layered
whispered devotions . . .
Even prayers and promises
scattered across the night of a darkened soul.
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