How sweet the linen
that grandeur weaves,
unseen by other's untrained eyes,
yet seemingly hard to sew
into the fabric of our own
immediate lives.

Mama, why does the spider spin its web?
Bright and silver above my head, she twirls her thread.

Baby, the spider is a teacher of yours,
She spins her thread when she sees an open door.
A door for her to enter in,
A door to seek a brand new spin.

She is scary, mama, and crawls all night,
How will I sleep if spider leaves me in a fright?
And why my door –
Couldn’t she go looking for more?

Ah, my child, but this spider is home,
Ask not me, but the spider, what you must be shown.
A spider knows where to cast her net,
And because of this, you mustn’t fret.

I see, but how can I ask her so?
I can ask her questions, but she wouldn’t know!
Talking to a wall, and watching her weave her thread,
She will have nothing to offer from her little head.

Baby, sweet baby, you’ve got it wrong,
And why towards this creature do you feel so strong?
A spider is what a spider will be,
A wise spirit and a blessing indeed!

If the spider is a blessing indeed,
Why does she show me her net where she catches her feed?
I do believe she is here to scare,
But I shall ask her why she’s in my hair.



Miss Spider,
Hello! And how do you do?
Could you tell me why you spin here,
Before you are through?

I figured you wouldn’t,
You can’t even talk!
Only sound that is heard
Is the ticking of my grandfather clock!


Mama, you told me to ask Miss Spider in the night,
Why she spins her thread at such a great height.
Yet she did not respond, and continued to stir,
Silent as the moonlight, her thought never even occurred.

My child, you must not ask and expect her to talk,
Especially as she spins her web, preparing to stalk!
For animals use language that is beyond our own word,
If you are patient and still, her message will be heard.

Mama, I trust you,
But Spider is gone!
Her silvery web is all that remains –
There was no trace of her at dawn.

Ah, but the magic lies within her thread,
She uses her silk so her stories are spread.
Watch as the moon takes over the sky,
The glistening in the web’s great eye!

Stories and thread,
Spider’s blackness has spread.
Tonight I will watch,
And listen as you said.

Go now, child,
And remember your deed,
For to question the web
Is a blessing, indeed!

I stitched each of them on to me, knitted
It tight on my flesh. I bleed for a moment
But it was just another etched on my flesh.

Each perforation was another that joined my flesh,
Entwined on my soul I made their hair in to fine
Cotton and each was given a place upon my being.

"Eye,
      "Neddle,
                    "Backstitch­,
                                     "Scissor,
                                                   "Seam,

A honour of their offering was felt as I seeped on
Their twine. Pain was a lust that was sort but
Never harvested and my culling was full.

Flesh was just moment of time aging ever moment
Decaying since birth. Their hair lived longer than
What was but food for thought now no more.

My limbs like a puppet on stings, but I am their keeper
Of life on me, in me they live on. I stich their memory
So many colours do  I weave on to myself.

Blonde,
             Brown,
                         Chestnut,
                                     Ginger

But the ones that are lucky that never grace my being,
They are those of least crowns on their scalp.
I am one of such no hair on myself. But weaves I
Sculpt upon myself, they live on even though bodies rest.


I have many stitches on my flesh of weavings not my own,
But their essence will always be here as long as I live on.
Seeing those moments which will be etched on myself,
I will weave all into the picture etched on my skin.

*"A stitch in time ebbs your existence your soul to mine,

The tales we weave
seem to only breathe.
They become the
moments of bittersweet
bliss and change.

They are meant to hide
our lies and
our deceits
And they work.
On anyone we seek to
delude.

Until the moment when
the teeth gnash,
the hands clench,
and our tales give way
**to consequence

You sit behind a glorious loom
Weaving and tugging the threads
Not of silk or cloth
But of the fabric of reality
You manipulate them
Steadily weaving my dreams
Into a blanket of memories
To keep us warm at night
As you are plucking the strings
Not of guitar or harp
But those of my heart
Strumming a tune known to all
That sweet melody
That sacred hymn
The song within.

When you found me there crying,
You said, "What can I do?
I said, "Weave me a rope,
Something to hold onto."

"Use a few strands of hope,
And a couple of joy.
A bundle of friendship,
And one strand of peace."

Yes,
Please weave me a rope,
And if it stays strong,
I can fall from the cliff,
But I will forever know;
*I will never fall.

if girls care so much about their hair
why do they take someone elses?