or would the threads hang with my wishes
to hold something worth falling out?
Would you let them untangle
until I’m a life no longer worth wrapping around you?
Hang me decrepit as a feast for moths?
Toss me aside and adopt something warmer?
A misperceived hole in your world turns it
radically. And I am radiant regardless.
My hole has bristles growing to catch any woe
and prove a little light always shines through.
Mend me if you must,
but pessimism is a dull razor rusting
and optimism just keeps growing.