The Thread

The linoleum is cracked,
Ruined
Crevices lie in hapazard ways, making criss-crosses on a sheet of plain white paper
Pencil marks are deep, dark
Little pieces of lead still remain, now only particles of dust upon that stark, vibrant surface.

She bends down, a pale digit outstretched
So inquisitive, thoughtful
It sweeps the kitchen floor clumsily,
A ballerina lost in step.
Her pretty, little cobalt eyes are alight with glee,
Triumph..

A flawless strand lays upon her fingertip,
Shining briefly in the flickering moonlight.
Her mouth, a tiny 'o'
Her orbs, two rounded, glazed surfaces.
It was a spider's web, spun to perfection.

Slowly the moon's filtering radiance fades away into nothingness,
A child's porcelain face hanging morbidly in its wake.
The large grandfather clock gave twelve pangs and fell silent,
Pendulum still swaying back & forth rythmically.

She let go.
And it fell to the floor.
Without a sound.