Tedious

I spin lace with the hair left in my fingers,
seems fitting to make a veil,
from matter of a veiled personas.
It becomes too difficult to weave the intricate patterns,
the hole-y bluntness of my actions outweighs,
delicate fibrous memories.

I will spin a lace that shrouds the world,
imperfections will be lost,
drawn out by the eyes.
It becomes to difficult too weave large patterns,
as the world's problem are small, they slip through.
Searching for this perfect design I realize now,
is futile.
So now I spin myself into it all.