runs, it runs in stillness, wrapping round the throat
to slit and kill, it will be ruined
with it, death anyway, maybe
woven with a ball of yarn of lambs slaughtered for meat
daily special
woman weaving, weeping, worrying about arthritis
the ache it takes to make
fashioned with a tag for fashion's sake
it screams to be bought
but has been
when removed by all too willing scissors
the thread she bled on is removed
the scarf, it tries to become free
return to its primitive yarny state
to the grass to be eaten by the lamb
but tied up, knotted tight
only a little is lost
woven 'round the neck
keep the pain in
keep the pain in
else, and so i think,
it will escape into the world
already in such pain
tie it tighter
just in case
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