Friends

We spin a web 

In our time on Earth.

Every meeting, every contact

A thread.

 

Many, many threads will be broken

Regardless of their age

Or strength.

 

Some will be stretched

By time and distance

Until they frey

And fade away,

Leaving only a rosily burning wintertime hearth of memories

As evidence that they were ever woven.

 

Some will be snipped apart

By rumours, lies and hate.

Listen to the Son; E. J. House.

He knew this well.

 

More still will almost exist

But fate will swipe them away

Before they have the chance to be spun.

 

There are, however, other threads

That will not be snipped

Nor thinned

But will become as wound steel.

 

Hold dear those at the end of those threads:

 

They will join you

In your bacchanal revelery

And linger with you

In the strobing neon afterglow.

 

They will sit in silence with you

At the pier's edge

As the sun drips into hiding behind the sea

And you exchange silently spoken thoughts.

 

They will lock arms with you

When that sea comes to carve away your town

And hold you up with straining muscles

When the earthquake tries to break your footing.

 

And you would do the same for them,

Wouldn't you?

 

These are the threads that will remain

When all others are severed.

 

These are your friends.