The Form of Strands

A deceitful knot entangles my skull –  
Creating harrowing disorder
As I recklessly attempt to release its vice.
A grip both tenuous and firm
On its anchor and reality.
My endeavour is distracted
By some nameless wordiness
In the shape of a circle.
Perhaps I’ve been here before?
Perhaps not.
 
Time is fast and blurry –
Such twisting of fibres this late in the forenoon
Is far from ideal.
The backside of the gradient
Is slightly less clumsy.
Eventually, it’s out
The preceding interlaced roughness
Transformed into ordinary silk.
Perhaps I will keep it tidy now?
Perhaps not…

A case can always be made
For its sinuous captivation.
And its meddlesome ensnarement
Is familiar, after all.
Yet, one can never be too careful
When earnestly wrenching on that
Which protects the only thing
That will ever truly be mine.