The weaver
I saw an old weaver, weaving a scarf of silver strings
I saw her little boy, inocently holding the yarn
Her glow, a suicidal sundown
Her eyes, a glance of exhaustion
His vision, a toxic mist
His support, a proof of ignorance
I watched the scarf, it flowed eternally
I saw the river, it drowned many
Trapped by the tide, hunted from below
Glimpse the horizon, waters unknown
A subtle rock, reflection changing
My image, twisted unsettling
A call from the aether, a higher mind
The lights were on, but I stayed blind.
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