Undulating Threads

The Gallery

walk through the corridors of memory,
walls hung with portraits of moments,
some framed in gold, others chipped and raw,
like forgotten sketches in a dim-lit wing.

Each thread begins here,
a color trembling in the hush of possibility,
waiting for the curator’s hand
to place it among the living exhibits.
They whisper like pigments in Pollock’s jar,
aching to spill,
to become chaos that somehow feels like truth.

The Loom

The loom hums like a heart in the dark,
its rhythm steady,
its teeth biting into strands of yesterday and today.

Threads collide,
hemp-like coarseness defiant against silk’s tender sigh,
a friction that births texture,
a harmony carved from contradiction.

I feel the weight of unfinished stories
dangling like loose threads of life’s tapestry,
their ends curling toward the unknown,
toward constellations that promise
a pattern beyond comprehension.

The Ascension

Above, the cosmos waits,

a tableau curtain like vaulted ceiling of stars,
each one a hook holding up
the tapestry of souls.

And yet…

One stubborn filament clings to earth,
a single thread knotted to the weight of experience,
holding back the ascent,
while other tapestries trembles at the edge of infinity,
their unfinished stories glowing
like stars waiting to stitch
the next universe.

I ache to rise,
to hang my woven biography
among galaxies that hum like violins,
to let my colors bleed into infinity.

But that one thread holds me back,
its grip warm,
its pull tender,

its relaxed shape like a smile,
a reminder that even in the museum of eternity,
love is the exhibit that never closes.