Art of The Weaver

It beats only because it’s hanging on

by thread.

Pulling it gently, to piece back together

resurrecting the parts that were dead.

*

Dripping, congruent to squeezing a tangerine,

pouring out the very last drop.

But not wasted because he salvaged the

pulp of my throb;

*

Of my pain, and every inch of grain.

The potency, of my heart.

Weaving the needle in and out,

removing the dart.

*

It soreness stitched back together,

just a light crack in the center.

*

Stood in the palm of the Weavers hand,

was all of my hurt;

the pitter-patter of my pulse,

was the muse to his patchwork.

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Written as an entry to Poppy’s Poetry Word Prompt