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(end of the rope)


When the stitching begins to come undone,

And each utter is slapped rudefully

By long looks in the mirror,

A pulling sensation starts to erode reason,

And you fall upon your knees,

Torn by indelible mutterings.


Your fingers, now unwoven, grasp outwards

To make the winds yield their pressure.

But no wind will tip this kettle

As it whistles shrill, biting lyrics,

Trying to settle the confusion

Buried deep inside.


The frayed knot cannot loosen, or bend,

Only stretch as unraveling weakens purpose,

And tears ragged pathways in the strings.

What dismembered emotion calls first

Ripping another section apart

Adding to the weight of despair?


You are there on the end of that rope

About to fall either way

Madly trying to patch the string,

Gesturing to passersby,

And longing to settle into

A comfortable bed.


                                                                                   ~~~ by Michael Chaussee



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