Stitch

There is no narrative that does not fray
At the edges, fear one stitch like all the others
Will give for no discernible reason, start
An unraveling that will not have a stop
 
Why so insecure, so uncertain in the face
Of its claims to certainty and assurance?
There is no insurance against the haunting
Of origins that can’t be remembered or lost

Chaos, because it is a term is too simple, 
A name for what can not be named or tamed,
Is included being excluded, part so, part not...
This stitch of voice starting to come undone

Yet this is me, as I once was, again
elaborating my own undoing