by Clara Mae Gregory (pen name)




Worn

 

My Life’s loom is warped.
Weaving your weft through me
produced my fabric.
But the passage of time
weathers and weakens our webbing
until the day a fray
Unravels into a drafty cold hole
and there’s no one left
to mend it
and no more
patches for the old.





Poetry by melanie sue
Read 939 times
Written on 2010-11-08 at 02:24

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NicholasG
I was listening to Liz Wright's version of Neil Young's Old Man, today and it occurred to me, when I first heard it, it was about them, but now it's about me ;-). Luckily, warped wood can be trued.
This is a lovely poem!
Thanks.
Nick
2010-11-11


shells
The chill of loneliness runs through the bones of this, def needs an applause.
2010-11-09



A portrait of a November day of the soul. Unflinching. Appreciated.

jim
2010-11-08


night soul woman The PoetBay support member heart!
I can recognize the feeling... so well described, so very well described... specially the last lines: "and there's no one left
to mend it and no more patches for the old." I recognize the feeling, it is actually the force of habit that enhances the intensity of this emotional moment. I have learned to be lonely and also learned to count on myself to guide me through what I need to go through so I just do my best and move on, day by day... I will bookmark this poem, thank you for sharing*applause*
2010-11-08