The Weaver's Yarns

I find small groups of words huddled Bound together and befuddled Their meanings over time now muddled Yellowed lies of passing dogs now puddled Others rant, claim they’ve been born again Lost within deceptions now and then Whittling their meanings razor thin Thus, none can use such words except for them To form a phrase was once considered art For open minded thought was at its start As words would step on stage, play their part Not caring for the place of horse or cart For words are but the spindle’s flowing threads Ink the weaver’s yarns in blues and reds