Ropes

The ropes are beautiful,
flecked with color,
art in a way,

but more frightening.
rougher,
carefully constructed to bind

to hold us prisoner,
often of our own nature,
of our own fears,

tightly tied, and so elegant,
each strand perfect,
weak in itself

but, wound together,
powerful,
and we, their prisoner,

beautifully bound, unsure
what we fear most,
remaining here,

with these ropes
caressing our skin and souls
as we whither and die,

or freedom,
where we are alone
with no excuses.

About this poem

The rope (isn’t it beautiful in a rough kind of way?) was part of a display at the Washington County Antique Fair last weekend. I took the picture because I believed a poem was in the image somewhere,

And it twas.

Tom