When exactly countless saffron gossamer were knit, my personification was complete and came into being. At the point when all these fibers were wrung as they should have been, my yarn, was possessed, by a spirit.
Ripped apart by mankind in their tugs-of-war; Tightly clutched by two trusting innocent hands, sitting on a swing hanging from a tree; Cold sea numbed every strand while anchoring the ship; Distressed while holding that neck in the gallows;
There are ruptures on the outside, now, threads tearing apart, and the damage is beyond repair. The appearance is changing fast, and soon, the saffron won’t last. The cuts are digging deep, threatening my survival, but, something has held me strong. It is the indomitable spirit unperturbed by the withering outer state of my yarn, and, which promises to remain till my last strand becomes a mystery.