String

Misbehaving behind the day to day
my words attached a string,
barely a silken thread
in most lights invisible.
Its woven a picture
stitch by stitch,
some parts are gold,
bright, shining  reverence
others
like mercury, molten,
scattering into small dull pearls
little knots of despair
that you chance on
while running your fingertips
over antique french linen.
Idly I pick them into  holes
fray the edges
tuck the debris deep into pockets
with ripped up dreams,
crows feathers and onion seeds.
Pulling the twine to break
I succeed only in drawing blood.

1/1/15