The delicate weave of a quiet transformation
Is slowly tangled around apathetic fingers,
The threads stretched listlessly with each tremble,
But hidden inside me, the whisper of hope lingers.

The web I had spun is now tattered and torn,
With each move I make the more lost I become,
Trapped in my thoughts, I must move towards the light,
Although my delicate weave's come undone.

The curtains of my eyelids I strive to keep open,
So that I may break through my chains of cognition,
And collect those threads that take hold of my strangely,
At once I'm consumed with an old apparition.

Sudden intuition grasps at my being,
Despite my struggle, I commence to weave,
My fingers are blistered and bleeding and pained,
But if I continue my whisper won't leave.

-mel

Very deep, another good poem. Have you considered publishing?