Your art is dying.

All of the dust of the air
is there burning under your delicate smile
while you make what is dying, slowly
tying each knot like a ghost weaver.

Rolling the thread between
your fingers--time
is thinner, finer,
a lingering smell of thick vanilla lace.
Your hand to your lips, remembers

the ache of each tiny victory
and slow caressed symphony,
hands dripping like honey across
everything, across anything but

Yes you are a dead art, slowly being born.