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we decorate our lives

with pearls or sequins,

life stitching on quills,

beads, even vaccines


experience makes yarn,

needles sew the thread,

then, behold, a sampler,

buried when we're dead


Athena's fingers flew, a

mistress of cross-stitch,

badges sewn each day

sparkling, or just a bitch


woven into a biography,

each bauble tells a tale,

but thread fails, beads

wither, unlike chain mail


repairing can be costly,

fading fabric remains,

threadbare footprints

or moth-eaten stains


for, not steel or marble,

all needlework's mortal

we can't take it through

that pearly gate portal


◄ Siren

Hay ►


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