black threads

She sits across from me, yet any attempt to make contact
Be it by words or touch, she merely resorts, to retorting
With scowls, folded arms and frowns….spitting faces
All combined with push backs and walkouts…

Shame, such a pretty thing, a hands grip only makes it worse
Destroying what little chances I had had…

I return to my home, my own room
Where none could have entered
And none other than I had ever been

Yet I find someone has seemingly escaped
Through an opened window, that which I have never left unlocked…
At any point…

When I awake I find myself upon the floor
And somehow my brother is present before me…
Demanding that I make myself absent, scarce….

Reluctantly and frustrated I do so…

And then I come into the sanctum
Of an aging, elderly friar…
Bed, candlelight, confessional and organ about the room
And I lift up a bowl teeming with threads….

And upon notice, the friar panics
And instructs me to discard it…
Suggesting that the threads offer answers
To a murder of one known to him…
That must not be allowed out….

I stack it with the old bowls to possess black threads….
And he turns away from me….

Presumably satisfied…