My Rug and I

Fire stoked and manipulated
Woven with scarred hands
My rug and I go way back

A tissue to burning eyes, a light blazing bright
A wrap to heal a wound
A shield from prying eyes

Surface worn from seeking hands
Colours lost and forgotten
A hole that inevitably grows

Its scent an awakening
Musky, safe and real
Home is what I smell, is where I feel

Red and gold intertwine, weaving
A spider web of the past
Memories laugh and flicker

A rug is a simple thing
One might discard it in disdain
But my rug and I go way back
And that’s how it shall remain