Time and Again

Unflinchingly, with the greatest dedication
She holds on- to the tablecloth of time
Woven intricately by crisscrossing muslin threads
Sometimes she keeps looking at the gold sheen-
And the patterns swiftly embroidered by divine craftsmen.
She feels happy- her life contains patterns- little butterflies
With red and blue wings flying over bright flowers
Her grip tightens- Those patterns are not to share or to let go.
And as she notices, a pull- she bares her claws. She hisses.
And the delicate muslin threads yield- one by one.
She falls, face forward, rolls back immediately-
Perchance the patterns and the tapestry are gone.
She throws one look skyward- of pure loathing-
And then drowns herself in her own tears, for the patterns
Were the only thing she owned- befitting her.
They lay a new tablecloth of soft wool with more colours-
A purplish hue- she notices through her blurry vision
Soft to touch- this time with motifs of little children playing-
They mouth unheard words to her through their smiles-
She puts her cheek to the fibre, feels it caress her face
And slowly dry up the tears. She has grown up now.
A lot of sheets have changed. Yet, each time, she hangs on
To the last- desperately, resisting change- Each time-
Tear tracks on her face, darker than the last.