Foreboding

wool

I’m picking at the thread
of my doubts and fears
The old worn-out sweater of
optimism no longer offers comfort
Now rough and scratchy
it torments me  

Even the night-time promise
of refuge is broken
Sheets are cold and harsh
and the charcoal night
only lights the fires of dread
My eyes won’t shut 

I watch the subtleties of change
And hope they are nothing
But the turnings of a ball
That the stitches won’t drop
And there will be no
unravelling

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