pluck

the fabric of the universe slowly comes apart, i sit cross legged on the bare soil, plucking threads at random

whispers of chaos meander into the aether

how many times have i cast destruction with idle hands and worried mind

no more craftsman than toddler with a sledgehammer, destroying every edifice my angry heart can muster

bluster and spurned, left to the whims of the undertow, pulled whichever way the hidden current travels, powerless and alone

still searching for the rhythm, the undercut meaning, the daft dreamstuff of this entire unlucky accident

dancing as rigor mortis sets in, hoping to leave a confounding corpse for the future generations to puzzle upon

pulling threads in chunks, unravelling this tempest tapestry in turgid truncated time

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