The Weaver

my mind spins the thread (work in progress)

My mind whirs
the grating monotony
of a spinning wheel.
My cramping fingers clutch
at the most miniscule of threads-
the tiniest details on which
I dwell-
feeding them over, and over, and over
into the whirring
until they are compacted into
steely wires that twist
and bend to barbs
which then settle in my stomach.