Plying The Yarn

Only a cotton ball, ephemeral cloud puff,

disjointed droplets of hitched illusion,

vast transient mass of unknowing.

Merely threads drawn, from ether drafted,

teased and twisted, plying the yarn,

distaff to spindle.

Simply the twists manipulated,

skeined slivers

executing and shivering,

separating the strands.

Purely an otherworld undertaking,

commissioned assignment.

Only every fibre pulled and plucked

for purpose.

Just words.

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