The Strained Memory of Internal Stitching

It is not the visible edge, the fiber that shows,
nor the bold embroidery the eye can admire,
but the subdued line, the ceaseless flight it knows,
that holds and conceals a world, without ever fire.
It is the internal seam, where the shadow repose.

A stitch after another, a silent accord
between dissimilar fabrics, a hidden meeting place,
that vibrates in the warp, a secret beat adored,
faithful geometry, never quite erased,
though the thread has long since been consumed by space.

And if the weave gives way, the form will unwind,
the intimate architecture, never truly dead,
remembers its design, its ancient support enshrined,
an invisible soul, steady and unsaid,
that still bears the weight of an existence spread.