the thread

weaver spins the threads

weaver spins his thoughts

weaver sees it upright

weaver learns to play.

We rise like the scent of morning,
and weep as the day unfolds.
We lay on our thoughts forgotten,
and pray we can still uncoil.

From the dream,
from the wake.
From the shades inside our head.

We believe, we reside.
We're accustomed by our rage.

Understood, half-recalled
we alone decide to fall.