poetry

touching

weaving a pattern
on fabric light to the touch
at first
coarse when felt

a warm coarseness
that strikes deep into my heart
the gold shining

through my mind
reflecting my memories
absorbing my dreams
swallowed up inside

a hole opened up
around me
resting on a flower

red tinged pink
leaves soft yet muddled green
wrapped around my

legs, cradled like a baby
fallen into the weave;
a picture painted bright
as a canvas

drawn by the
sun and moon
in ecstasy

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