The Weavers

oh yes,
it was a dance -
of weavers spinning a web,
with the turn of the seasons,
the pull of the moon,
the song of the night,
the patterns of the day,
the dreams of the stars, and
the sowing and harvests
of entangled hearts;
but wait,
something's amiss now,
things seem to have changed,
the warp and the weft
no longer rest in the game;
threads have become knots
that cannot be undone,
but for a snip here and there,
the hearts still beat while they're lost,
but can never be found.

Tangled

Thoughts and feelings
about yesterday
and tomorrow,
rolled into one
brown mass -
tangled, with
a lost start, and
an unknown end.

Untangling
is not easy
if the threads
are not to be cut.

I find the knots
one by one,
with trembling fingers
running along each thread,
finding patterns in patterns
of thoughts and feelings,
as they slowly unwind
and unravel the enigma
of what it is
to be utterly human.