Needle Spun

Twisting the fibers,

dangling down over a background of haze;

of hues of browns and beige.

She hangs,

head falling back,

one leg bent and toes pointed down as she twists right and

racks layers of cotton beneath her hand.

Twisting around, until it all comes undone.

Falling down, fabric floats like white blossom petals.

She hits the stage, coming to a halting stop against the wood grain covered floor.

The threads pulls taught,

dragging her up.

Ankles,

Hands.

All bound by tiny cotton weaves.

Three spun fibers,

make her dance though it cannot make her sing.

Watch her dance against the warming wood stage.

Hanging by the thread.

My marionette,

poor thing.

She's always been nearly dead.