The Secret Will of the Knot

Where the thread splits and then crosses over,
there is no choice, only physical weave.
A wrapped circle that does not leak away,
a blind architecture that proclaims
its arcane will, its silence deep,
the tenacity of fibers drawn tight at the core.

It fears not the wind that shakes it in vain,
nor the memory of who first formed it.
It is a fixed point held within the hand,
a bond that time has sealed away.
It knows no end, and recognizes no error,
yet stands firm in itself, sculptor of its own fire.

Then, without warning, it yields to the imperceptible,
to the slow erosion of the indifferent touch,
or an unaware hand that makes it useable.
It unravels, not defeated, but graceful,
restoring to every thread its path anew,
a moment free from its destined fate.