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
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