Cosmic Tapestry
They get tangled when crocheting.
Much like hair, they weave dreams.
It changes shape, changes form,
when touched with barehand,
it crumbles, triggers a storm.
They say, 2.537 million light-years away,
is a galaxy like our own.
The tiny fiber, there too sway,
weaves supple fabric, alas it is
made of stone.
When I look up at the sky,
I swear I see. A slender yet,
long thread flying up high,
inter-galaxies, it is free.
They say, 2.537 million light-years away,
is a world, neither young nor old.
From nebulae to supernovas vast,
these cotton strands, secrets hold.
Connecting all from this world
to the other, the fortune changes.
Enlightenment is unfurled.
Every fibre lives, every fibre
dies. Every stitch questions
Who am I?
They say, 2.537 million light-years away,
there is a land so divine.
Where gods walk the earth, humans
collude with the stars
and disrupt the time.
Prompt: Cotton Strands
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