The trees are bare of summer green,
now the landscape paints a winter scene.
Each thread hums —
drawn by patient hands,
dyed in storms and thaw.
The base is pale as morning frost,
fibers holding winter’s quiet breath.
Across it, ribbons of shifting hues
wind like rivers —
green bending to blue,
violet bruised into pink.
At the center, twin knots gleam —
changing under every flicker of light,
tidal glass or meadowstone,
never the same twice.
Edges fray softly,
not from neglect
but from touch repeated, cherished.
The whole cloth sways with a living pulse —
a work forever becoming,
never complete.
Sure enough
they'll be leaving
one by one-by-one by one
leaving a steady stream of grief
leaving pin prick holes
in the foundation of the heart
the tapestry of the soul.
Like termites taking down
a mountain of Mahagony
one clacking mandible at a
time
time is the ravenous masterpiece
these infinite waves of grief
have no mercy
for a thinning beach.
One day soon enough it'll be my turn
to leave behind this timeless stream...
I pray the foundation is restored
the tapestry replenished.
Oh, to grow old with you, if such a thing
could be: a dream, a wish, a fantasy
that keeps invading day and night and all
the minutes in-between with words that sing
and weave the interlocking tapestry
of hope begun and hope denied; darkfall~
within the blackest night it hides beyond
rigid boundaries of insanity,
and still I wait to hear the heart's true call
of wondrous hope writ large by wayward wand's
cabal.
Imagine an alternate universe, one born in the reverse rhythm of our own Big Bang.
In this cosmos, the arrow of time flows backward, not as a regression but as an elegant symmetry, a dance of retreating possibilities.
Galaxies do not expand into the void but instead coalesce, condensing into radiant singularities, the luminous echoes of futures we can never reach.
Here, light emerges only to fold inward, its journey truncated before it graces the expanse.
It is a universe hidden from us not by distance alone, but by the very nature of its existence—its glow always arriving too late, its truths eternally just beyond our grasp.
Yet, even unseen, such a realm invites awe.
It suggests that reality is not a single thread but a cosmic loom, weaving countless tapestries in both directions of time.
It is a humbling thought, a reminder that the cosmos, vast and intricate, may hold infinities we can sense only in the whispers of our dim imagination.
In the depths of dreams, our story weaves like a tapestry of stars,
She looks at me, and I feel myself melting like a glacier under the scorching August sun,
Her laughter is an echo of bells in the air, filling my chest with a symphony of sweet pain,
She reveals the hidden realms of her soul to me, like an atlas of unexplored mysteries,
Her passions and fears flow toward me like a river of light, intertwined with crystal tears,
We embrace, and I feel her warmth envelop me, like the flames of a campfire defying the autumn chill,
Her lips meet mine, and the taste of her kiss remains like a memory etched on the parchment of memory,
We desire each other like two planets orbiting in a dancing trajectory of longing,
Never has there been a greater reward than the journey through our personal hell,
Hand in hand, soul to soul, laughing in the face of fate that once whispered she would no longer want me,
But she does, and I want her, all of her, as if the entire universe was created for us,
After all this, nothing has changed, our story flows like an eternal river,
Intertwining our desires and dreams in an endless dance, losing and finding ourselves in the eternity of an "us."
The moon nestles within a celestial quilt,
as the sun sleepily peeks through the indigo sky.
Chartreuse canopies sway against a mid-autumn sunrise.
Mahogany leaves, scattered upon frost-tipped, ombré blades of grass,
crackle under the patter of the feet of does.
Canadian geese flock, gliding toward home.
The inaugural snowflakes of winter flutter on teal breezes.
Inhaling the crisp morning air, it melts on cherry lips.
Warmth from the sun's silhouette dances playfully on curious hands.
The scent of freshly brewed coffee wraps you in comfort,
Whilst a monarch butterfly rests on the last dandelion fiercely holding on.
As the threads of autumn gingerly unravel,
they reweave into winter's aquamarine tapestry,
the transition of seasons bringing forth a time of peaceful reflection.
Vince says I'm intelligent, creative, and quirky.
I am all those things,
as these are features of all people,
as well as all animals,
and plants.
Look!
I belong
and am a special part of
this beautiful tapestry,
and have the opportunity
to live harmoniously within it,
and shine!
Like all life, I have, not imperfections, but quirks,
and like Vince, on most days, I am kind.
A winsome weave, simple and real,
Warp and weft; a tight twill,
A weaverbird’s nest, strong and snug,
With soft crossways and tumphy tug.
Subtle cozy patterns, seldom revealed,
Cynical twists like waves unsealed,
The mirror of peafowl’s courtship field.
Matchless display by the peacock,
Dance elevated by love, rattle of feathers in rhythmic clock,
Enticing and dazing the hens, with a silent poise,
All while rivals raise their voice.
Waking incredible train rattle, a sharper dance,
Initial plumage grandeur, a healthier glance,
Peahens’ basics caught in a stance.
Beautifully woven, a rhythmic tapestry,
Wales ranged in a rolling plain spree,
Richly captivating...lines of love,
Crowned with bliss by the brave thereof.
It seems my thoughts have been
buzzing a long my skin,
a hollow being filled
with a sense of connection I had
fought for too long.
For being too much-
not enough-
always an in between within my own
conflict.
I have held hands with that inky blackness
that resides a side from my soul,
and I comfort it, I never push it away-
how could I?
Who would I be without it?
Nevertheless, it's tendrils swirl along my
cosmic essence and they blend,
into everything and nothing-
they sway me into seeing your gentle nature.
An aperture in my vision that was reserved for only you.
Your love that is so gentle it reminds
me of the cradling of a wary mother's arms around me,
a father's want to be present,
you remind me of a child who was left behind.
For that-
my love extends beyond being.
More than me,
more than I could be.
Is it deserved?
I'm not entirely sure but now,
I understand I was supposed to show you
something away from your previous existence.
and I hope the fire greets you as it did me;
burning and caressing.
A tapestry of strength, a vibrant hue ,
On women's Day, our hearts sing true.
From dawn's soft blush to twilight's gleam,
A legacy of courage, a powerful dream.
For every hand that guides , and every voice that rings
For wisdom shared, and joy that springs.
Through trials faced, and battles won,
A spirit shines, like morning sun.
With every step, a path they pave,
For future blooms, the world to save.
So let's rise, with hearts ablaze,
And honor women, in countless ways.
For strength and grace, and boundless love ,
A gift bestowed , from realms above.
On women's Day, we celebrate,
The power within, that seals our fate.
"Words woven, threads of thought
In English, our stories are brought
A language born of earth and sea
A tapestry rich, for you and me
From Shakespeare's quill to modern keys
English evolves, in endless breeze
A global tongue, that's strong and free
Connecting hearts, across humanity
With roots in Latin, Greek, and more
English blooms, a linguistic score
A language of dreams, of hopes, of strife
A bridge that spans, the world's vast life
In English, we find our voice
A language that makes our hearts rejoice
So let us cherish, this gift so rare
And use it wisely, with love and care"
Suggest a title for the poem
My life's tapestry
Plain and stained by shortcomings
But it's not over
In a silent world, where dreams are woven like an unseen tapestry,
Artists draw with untamed longing edifices of light reaching towards the heavens,
In the twilight of consciousness where thoughts ignite like smoldering flames,
Sculpting in the silence of time unseen cathedrals of change.
Politics weaves its illusions like a spider’s web in forgotten corners,
But artists transform reality into poetry, time, and eternity,
Poetry becomes an ethereal pursuit piercing through the fog of silence,
In a world where truth is discovered in color and vibrating sound.
In the quiet of creation, where each note is a smoldering flame of dream,
Artists live change with every step, with every stroke of the brush,
Building bridges from dream and fantasy between hearts divided by time,
Politics lags behind, weary, trying to grasp the ceaseless vision.
Like stars in the night, guides shining in the darkness of forgetfulness,
Artists are spirits in unending flight, seeking pure truths,
Igniting sparks of light in the souls of those who watch with longing,
Knowing that true change comes from hearts burning with pure passion.
Beneath the stars, the threads are spun,
A web of whispers, one by one.
Through fleeting days, we seek the light,
Life’s loom weaves shadows into sight.
The rivers sing in silver streams,
Reflecting hopes, refracting dreams.
Each wave, a moment’s fragile flight,
Life’s loom weaves shadows into sight.
The winds that dance in twilight’s glow
Remind us all we’ll come and go.
Eternal skies hold truths contrite,
Life’s loom weaves shadows into sight.
Through storms we rise, through calm descend,
A spiral journey without end.
In every thread, the dark and bright,
Life’s loom weaves shadows into sight.
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