When

Fullbeard Lit

The last thread of the braid snaps,
Or maybe one or two before the last
This fact doesn’t matter,
Trivial it might be

For what remembered
Not matching what not
Means meaning matters as little
As the thread that wasn’t woven.

So we unweave all that we chose
As though those choices mattered
Like matter we weigh on infinite scales
And find nothing.

The scope too small for our eyes. The scope too small for the thread
To be woven back together, snapped.

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