Ends of ends, I tie,
ineffectively, slip like cut silk
through, over open hands.
In attempt to encourage, two fingers crossed instead,
and there, another tentative knot,
plaintive flush of hope, recurrent wave,
patterning dread.
Pacing within
the foreboding guilt, the glass,
that phantom knot of flesh,
idle genetic tendrils of instinct fraying
as a poor hemp piece,
spared no heart volume or
harangued beat…
To you, earnestly fashioned,
how could you have accepted the fate
or either coin face?
Womb bullet-proofed with defiance, papered,
shield for shield against circumstance
with no hole or hand-hold mentor
As witness.
Prayer holds no leverage against objection;
unfamiliar in the base craft of tethering anything,
these unknown Masters.
The old-regime; played for one of each.
I wring myself dry of mourning.
Untied of you, I am, I dress my grief in ribbons.