A Poem

Arachne's magic, without the frame

Circus colors flow through my fingers and over the golden hook

Building warmth, the joy of creation.


What happens when the world is so heavy I can't breathe and this small shaping has been taken from me?

I don't know other's nightmares, but this is mine.

Already my hands stiffen quickly and the world seems dimmer,

And I'm still young.


For now though, the color still flows,

The warmth still builds,

And the world is not (yet) too heavy.