A hushed, resigned, tailor
Observed, a noiseless, patient spider spin,
Past Apollo's race,
With needlework of kin,
Our pace pulls in the dawn.
Fingers never separate from silk,
Arachne's skill thrives between promintory
The seamstress's wicker, shows to be steady
Sewing the soul in drapery, of wet, black denim.
Brimming with abortive sorrow,
The beaten thing, clumps on the ground, like a fallen song bird,
Colorful, beautiful, contented glory, to all others who look upon its thread.
For they do not see,
The desperate story, within me.
I, the tailor, and tapestry, shall toil till I fall,
To create the look of awe, for their eyes...
That is my beloved Echo,
Who repeats to me- only sweet ambrosia love.