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The moon, a silver coin in velvet skies,
Did cast its glow on slumber's gentle hold,
Where dreams, like phantom birds, began to rise,
And tales untold, in woven threads, unrolled.
A weaver sat, with eyes of ancient gold,
Her shuttle swift, a comet's fleeting gleam,
And spun the fancies that the heart governed.

She caught the sighs that whispered through the air,
The hopes that bloomed like flowers in the spring,
The fears that lurked, a shadow's dark despair,
And to her loom, each fragile thing would bring.
With threads of starlight, she would softly swing,
Her tapestry of visions, rich and deep,
Where joy and sorrow danced, and fate would lilt.

A labyrinth of colors, she did weave,
Where heroes fought, and lovers softly met,
A world of wonder, she did interleave,
With threads of memory, she did inset.
A metaphor for life, where we forget,
The simple magic that surrounds us all,
The dreams she spun, we cannot yet recall.

©bfa022625

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