Fine Tangled Strands

I walk right into it,
feather-light neglect
thriving at vision's edge,
the cobweb.

It lives loftily,
but sinks on landing
and sticks,
tickling
its inner twin 
the thought counterpart,
my brain signals: laugh
so I do,
but my stomach hurts.

In the absence of articulation,
and the passing of time
marked solely by the hands of the clock,
my thoughts spun differently.
Some primal spider instinct
wove a web, 
and I watched them ebb,
watched them trickle out
from whence they came,
saw them change.

They were stretched,
thin enough to almost disappear
but still remain,
fine,
I brush them every morning,
align my intentions,
smile at my reflections,
live the affirmations.

tangled,
And then I forget,
passing words and feelings
are caught, 
—a myriad of muscle motions, emotions,
and they hang in the air,
waiting to be carefully picked,
but there is nothing nimble about this.
So when I reach out 
my limbs clunky, 
they pile and mix,
nearing an impossible fix.
The exhaustion is exhausting,
strange sleep is costing me,
the calm is violent,
it's actually the silence…

strands.
Eating food is a feeling I want to feel more often than I should.
Sometimes I am sunshine.
Other times I am an eternally cocooned caterpillar.
I turn my nose up at melancholy but it's seeped under my fingernails and now I keep tasting it on my tongue instead.
I think I know my own skin but I moult with the weather.
I see lives and I see choices. 
Decisions pierce like sharp notes in the artificial mellow spontaneity I've synthesised.
It happens to be that I have caught the conductor of my complexity:
“How can I let anything be everything?”