Threadspire,
worn thin by restless wanderings.
Ashweft,
fading in the quiet corners.
Stormheel,
tugged by the weight of fleeting steps.
Driftseam,
lost beneath the tides of drawers.
Snagthread,
clinging to the edge of memory.
Their names unravel,
caught in the loom of forgetting.
It drips without weight,
a cloud pressed into the corner of a thought.
Fingers reach and find nothing,
yet carry it everywhere.
The world screams in edges,
but here—only a sigh.
It is the color of forgetting,
the shape of what stays.
One leans forward,
the other lingers behind.
A thread pulls tight,
then loosens without asking.
Dust gathers where nothing has been,
and still the ground hums quietly.
Something is missing,
but it keeps
Red hum, green hush—
metal rivers split and crawl.
Windows blink in silent code,
mirrors swallow distance whole.
Concrete veins throb slowly,
turning nowhere into next.
Engines murmur like caged weather,
waiting to forget the sky.
Soft monuments folded,
linen cliffs on bathroom plains.
A silent hush of cotton breathes—
damp ghosts dissolve in loops.
Edges fray like quiet arguments,
colors forget their names.
Hung between air and absence,
they wait.
-Brendan Ragan
Brendan Ragan poetry 