Lisa Shea

An awkward, rolled up ball lays there
of twine, perhaps, or maybe hemp
or something else unkempt, in such
a disarray it hardly seems
to be of worth. No silken strands
in shimmer shine; no ruby jewels
do help adorn its hidden face.
It huddles, saddened, in some small
neglected corner by itself.
It sits, forgotten, wond´ring how
this situation came to pass.