Weaver.

Silk falls from the sky here.

The ribbons, cut from the clouds that tied them together.

It's fibers tell a story within its craft;

The process of its production and dismemberment, is all the story we need.

We can concoct a credible tale, that is both believable and disappointing.

The garment that does not attract the eyes of the lone wanderer, is equally isolated;

Destined to fall into the hands of neglect and disrepair.

 

 The Weaver's capabilities and expertise are exemplified through his very product.

Completion is the ultimate downfall;

Bound to be severed and casted out from his presence.

His care and surveillance extends as far as the material's length.

The silk's beauty is found within its ultimate consequence: solitude.   

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741