Worn


My Life’s loom is warped.

Weaving your weft through me

produced my fabric.

But the passage of time

weathers and weakens our webbing

until the day a fray

Unravels into a drafty cold hole

and there’s no one left

to mend it

and no more

patches for the old.




by Clara Mae Gregory
[original post 2009]




Poetry by Clara Mae Gregory The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 13 times
Written on 2026-08-15 at 17:04

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