Post by Ashleigh Berry on May 27, 2014 2:07:28 GMT 8
The grey glistens in the light of the falling sun.
Each thread, its own entity although part of a whole. Weaving? no.
Being forcefully wound into the others.
My favourites are the strays.
Forging their own pathways, hanging out on the periphery and chiding at those too fearful to follow.
For if they did follow they would be just the same as they are now.
And so they remain tightly clasped in the teeth of the beast.
Reprimanding freedom.
How dare one conquer so many? Instil such fear?
...
I break my gaze and settle back into the discomfort of the public chair.
I say (in my head only) I need to take things less seriously. Again.
But I can't help it, my favourites are still the strays.
Each thread, its own entity although part of a whole. Weaving? no.
Being forcefully wound into the others.
My favourites are the strays.
Forging their own pathways, hanging out on the periphery and chiding at those too fearful to follow.
For if they did follow they would be just the same as they are now.
And so they remain tightly clasped in the teeth of the beast.
Reprimanding freedom.
How dare one conquer so many? Instil such fear?
...
I break my gaze and settle back into the discomfort of the public chair.
I say (in my head only) I need to take things less seriously. Again.
But I can't help it, my favourites are still the strays.