Flames of sunlight trembled in her palms—

a warmth almost too bright, too alive to bear,

yet she held it longer, still entwining it tighter

as if love itself could be made and rewoven into

the piece’s worn thin bands, becoming new.

But the world unraveled it, again and again,

yet her fingers—aching, raw—kept spinning.

The golden twine fell through her grasp,

a knot untied in silence, by unseen hands.

Still she gathered each radiant filament,

stubborn as roots in a shifting ocean of sand.

“Let this thread become worth noticing,”

her whisper boomed against the soft wind,

a vow stitched with gold and unwavering hunger,

fragile as glass, precious as gold, yet unyielding

to lose within, just like a scorching fire.

But the world tugged hard at every gold band,

slipped through her grasp like a piece of quicksilver.

Each knot she tied seemed to come undone,

each weaving unraveled, yet still she reached,

always seeming to reach, for the burning

face of the glimmering sun.

And still she braided the light in her hands,

knowing it might vanish at any moment,

knowing it could burn her skin or betray her.

Yet between her fingers, it flared, alive—

and watched it ignite, a blaze she refused to let die.

(Thank you for reading my poem, I haven't posted in months, and this is my newest one! My poem also doesn't match the prompt, so I'm sorry about that.)