By the last micro thread of the spider’s web
In a delicate balancing between desire to be free
From the casket of this cocoon
And to be safe from the fall to the ground

How came I upon this entanglement
But by little things, single threads of erroneous
Quiet discontentment resting feather-light
Clinging unassumingly to the sleeve of my façade


Movement through my own self
Became hindered and slowly, progressed to
Halting proportions lost in one immobile
Suspended by the last filament of my attachment

To you