By Jamila, age 12
Stitch by stitch, they weave,
threads of laughter, light, and loss,
some fade, some remain.
Warm flickers of youth,
intertwined tight and golden,
soft against my hands.
A once so clear image,
discoloured and forgotten,
now stolen by time.
Icy threads unspool,
silver glitter, loosely stitched,
names lost in the night.
Faint remnants persist,
electric sparks in the dark,
fragments dance through skies.
An unsteady pulse,
mapping synaptic currents,
a river of string.
Some truths can be sharp,
pricks the finger deep and raw,
bleeding through the wool.
Yet some stitches hold,
anchored deep in stem and lobe,
a tapestry whole.