It might as well be my shroud.
Confusion of tapestry woven daily
in knobbly hues, threads pulled straight
when ease marks the course, twisted
and frayed when impaired;
How many acres of worries it covers!
Like prayer beads worn shiny with use,
stitched string upon string
until unnerved, I buckle under its bulk.
I want to conceal every footpath,
leaving no trace, a sandstorm scouring
undulating desert dunes. Instead, tracks
are buried, grooved deep into grey matter,
waiting in the wings, seeking flight
on thermals of my liberation.