Threadbare Threads

Rough hemp rope, stiff and coarse,

fibers splitting under fingers,

lacing through dust and old cardboard.

I found it tangled in the attic’s breath,

a holdover from days I barely recall,

smelling like dry earth and unfinished stories.

The edges unravel, slow and certain,

a quiet witness to time’s slow undoing,

and the things we grip until they slip away.