STRANDS

A transparent jar
lies in the back
of a cob-webbed
locker.
Wispy, liquidy strands
fighting

to come out.
Trying
to slide past,
the lid shut tight.
And there are nights
of loneliness
and longing
for companionship
where I twist
the lid
just a bit
and they shriek,
those strands,
ready to create
terror
at first chance.

And people say
conquer your
thoughts.
Maybe they are unaware
of the power
each strand holds.
Of how, each
is capable
of wrapping
itself
around my delicate neck,
a million times
and take away
my extremely fragile
life.