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Thread

The story is stitched inside you;
unpicking it will not remove the thread
that has two strands entwined:

the one that goes from next to then,
from Monday to Tuesday and year to year;
the other goes from anger to fear,
(through panic and guilt) and back again.

one carries detail; a restaurant table,
a forlorn journey home, the hair on your back
the other doesn’t care for fact.
so when people and places and ages all change
it stays the same.

wherever the story enters in it pierces the skin;
inside are fine holes in every part including the heart
every word that you say, scene that you play finds its own way in through an old opening
and joins the tale.

the task must be to split the thread;

the one strand has a certain ending

the other doesn't.

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