The Weaver

I'm the toy in your attic,
Weaving outside your box,
Exploring the depths of your folly
From the thread I'm hanging on.

I'm the only gleam in your gloom,
The imperfect match for your desperation.
To catch a glimpse of me,
You'll need to walk through the looking glass.

I'm the mote in your eye,
The forged memory you're playing with,
The illusion you must let go of
To finally pass the threshold.

© La Pensine Mutine. All rights reserved. Reproduction prohibited.

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