There are lots of other weavers,
They sit at their looms and flow into the string.
Most of them sit above me.
I watch their work flood into the streets,
For the world to see.
It overwhelms me.
When I weave the string is tangled, my hands shake.
The weavers continue on,
Transforming lives of flesh and blood into
My hands are stilled,
String winds itself around my joints.
It twists and curls,
Rooting me to the spot, looking up
Forever at my rivals.
Though where is there a rivalry,
Between a novice and a master?
Between a pupil and a teacher?
The happy and the unhappy?
There is no contest, it is jealousy.
I suppose I will be unhappy.
"Who are you?" speaks the wind,
"Who are you to stand with them? An admirer?
A child? An inconvenience?
Who are you to hold a candle to their roaring flame?
A joke. Why bother?”
I cannot push him back,
Nor fight him, my hands and feet are tied in place.
Heavily he weighs upon my chest,
Until I fill my lungs with my own wind
And speak back to him.
"Who are you?"
I ask, "Who are you to me? You are a voice.
A spirit, an echo.
You tell me to stop when there is nothing to stop for.
Who am I?"
But there is nothing stopping me."
"Just look at yourself," cries the fading whisper.
And I do.
I set a fire to the tangles,
And among the blaze
I grab a new bundle, and start again.
After all, it's only string.
I suppose I will weave another story.