Grasping at strings,

Trying to hold on,

The knot work,

My intricate weaving,

All coming apart,

My hands are tired,

Trying to hang on,

My hands are slipping,

Streams of blood come,

As the strings cut my hands,

Blood red strings,

Now flood my work,

Seeps into the twine,

Shards of crimson,

Cut into the tan,

Leaving me here,

To start again,

To climb back up,

A spider on its web,

I need to cleanse,

This poor ruined coil,

My toil seems pointless,

When I know, yet again,

I shall fall, I shall slip,

And I’ll be stained once again.