You might say
she stitched her life in a loose-wove cloth

Examined closely
you can see the flaws
zigzagging where it should have gone straight
running stitches plowed through pain
vibrant colors out of place
knots that didn’t hold
times she plied her needle in darkness
lit by solitary hope light
no esteem held for the dreams woven into her tapestry

In a world frayed with unpredictability
she found little worth in careful plans
holding only this rustic piece of cloth
of length and width unknown
to pierce and pull persistently
and catch a tear occasionally

She defiantly embroidered as she wished
seldom as others saw fit
resigned to the consequences she remained
unfinished
unable to appreciate the whole of it
until it was irreversibly complete

Her handiwork will fade with time
handed down or discarded in a pyre
matters not if no one notices
she made her mark
and what came after was altered
in some tiny bit
for the better by it.

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