By Blake
She is weaving a world again;
a world where silver and gold thread
tie down the trees
and make sure they never leave her again.
She doesn’t weave alone anymore,
her hands are cupped, over
flowing with soft figures
and her mouth with
sour blood and candy
she chews up and spits out
like turns of phrase
onto the pulp.
By the light of the moon,
the trees can still be woven
with silver and gold,
but she can’t see it
on her stoop where she weaves
her own trees,
where she is always lonely but
never alone.
The string is breaking
while the scent of smoke floats in.
She’ll make new ones tomorrow.
God is a self-made man,
and she’s God here.
a note from the artist-
"This is a piece I wrote about the lonely nature of writing, of crafting new worlds."
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