Threads of Poetry

A tailor of words; a weaver of muse the wonder lies in the threads that I use. Oh, ribbons of speech I spin into yarn. I patch worded quilts; with stitches I darn. Each thread is a vein of ink to yet spill. The needle a pen with purpose to fill. Each word means nothing with no more to sew. Each thread must tangle another to flow. The threads of language one word at a time... Make fabric for thought and poems sublime. I pine for the need of the perfect thread. The one tiny seed to grow in ones head. I hear silent tunes of haunting threads gone. Those relics and runes stolen by dawn. I crave the embrace of a magic thread. One that may erase a poets flawed dread. In reflection of the threads of grandeur... All I feel is love paradises lure. An ode to beauty, the tresses that braid. The woven fine cloth worded threads have made.