The Weaver


Threadbare hands, idly wander, through thickets of idea
gathering the silk like the flesh of skin, embracing naked splendor
Calloused fingers seek an eye, tiny and silver it is
Sharp as a thorn yet fluid as water to weave its way
in construct

Gallant forms and soften breasts, curve the cloth like maze
Petals are sown like seeds on a field, explosions of red do shine
In and out the weaver weaves, sowing a life from thought
A canvas of love, she does dance, like a crimson wind,
tip toes

Admirers come near and far, glimpsing the newborn flesh
Just to touch an orgasmic ray, shivering fingertips
Enigmatic eyes can’t adjust, details ingrained like puzzles
It speaks to few, to those who listen, to those who know
its truth.

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