This thread is barely hanging on.
Beads of morning dew attach themselves on it
like it could shield them from

I sit back, and watch
as you take a pair of scissors
and snip off a small length of the thread.
You do that again, and again,
until the mere skeleton is left.
And the droplets that were once secure
are left behind,
dangling on its remains,
hoping they could hold on
until a new thread is found.

A/N: This poem is written at the same time as "Fear of Dreaming" and "The Fall of the Great Wall". In fact, I wrote them all between 10.49 pm and 11.14 pm. So, they share the same theme.