There is the moment
Stopped sudden in Self's Destruction.

I spoke the truth until it hurt -
Not personally, but the space behind the heart that holds it like a fist
Breath tightened under duress -
Or the truth within us,
A low-itched harmony, that chest-pained fear of life,
The lump in the throat that panics speech -
That kind of pang that can well one up in tears
At the snap of a finger:
An idea of a child’s memory relit
Like an old unwanted dog with such sadness in its eyes
It hurts to see its choiceless weariness
And we all know this.

You may catch your older self in mirrors -
Glimpses of future disapproval
When we give up and look for that again -
A whisper in your ear -
What are you doing?
The effort is illusion.
That is when Truth hits you:
There are no excuses and too much to explain.

My hands fall to the side and fold in
Useless when not creating - almost detached.
Weaving the scenarios of onward - cutting, reattaching, molding - Resigned
Hands that weave like a Spinster spinning,
Not knowing why but promised some reward in the end,
What is it and why is it that this is what we all desperately need:
A place to rest, lay down our head.

“Little One, come build your web.”