Weaver

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My heart and soul are like a tangled skein
Of twine, like unto the fabled Gordian knot,
A snarled, intricate ball of hurt and pain,
That is their poor, inextricable lot,
But I have found Alexander the Great,
I have the Will and I have found the means,
My pen is the shuttle that flies so straight,
With which I smash the knot to smithereens,
The paper is the loom on which I weave,
The anguish that burns deep inside of me,
Letter by word by verse I draw the sleave,
I knit order out of chaos, and free
Myself degree by degree of the pain
Till not one single scar there will remain.

© 2014 M.G. King (inspired by a conversation with Victoria Moss)
Image sourced from Google Images

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