The storyteller weaves a tale
like gauze, like mesh
wrapt then wrapped, you are
inside its threads
slowly
one pull and then another
sinking into its cocoon
its nest
its womb
a warm bath of linen and language.
I have a tale to tell
don't you?
What did you think
Comments
-
I actually have to think here. It's weird, I can usually just comment because I find familiarity in another's words so it drudges up this or that and so I spin a web of words in praise.
But this is different in that... it's not specific to a memory. This falls under the 'other' catagory in which I read. It's generic, but I don't mean that as simple-minded as it sounds... that was in reference to genre.
A piece on writing itself, but not as a purge like so many before (and after) you have and will put it. There's intention, ascention and it's just creepy in the most wonderful of ways and for me to say that is of the highest compliment!
I also don't like spiders.
Adding your comment:
