the mystery that drives and weaves
and captures all she feels and grieves-
inward lies her heart perfecting
both her days and nights, dissecting
with a tiny mirrored hand-
her sphere, it grows -afflicts the strand
which twines and knots and preys alone
and none will notice, deftly sewn
just like auroras, bold and lithe
she wanders – spreads – abates in sight.
Taps and Ratamacues
A site for poetry and other stuff
Taps and Ratamacues 
I love the way your words twist and flow, the push the reader on to the end leaving her breathless for more
Thanks Melinda. The ebb and flow of this was important. I am glad you felt it.
It had music in it that was undeniable and moving.