Silk falls from the sky here.

The ribbons, cut from the clouds that tied them together.

It's fibers tell a story within its craft;

The process of its production and dismemberment, is all the story we need.

We can concoct a credible tale, that is both believable and disappointing.

The garment that does not attract the eyes of the lone wanderer, is equally isolated;

Destined to fall into the hands of neglect and disrepair.


 The Weaver's capabilities and expertise are exemplified through his very product.

Completion is the ultimate downfall;

Bound to be severed and casted out from his presence.

His care and surveillance extends as far as the material's length.

The silk's beauty is found within its ultimate consequence: solitude.   

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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