The Gift of the Word Weaver

A poem about us and our favorite thing.

Sitting at a cherry oak desk
Sewing tapestries odd and grotesque
Twiddling my thumbs, waiting for ideas to come
I hope abstractly for better days
While conjuring worlds of joy and decay.

Soul Screamers, capering in the psyche
Things that sing to be set free.
The wicked stinger of a honeybee.
Insane asylum escapees.

Whimsical mind-meals
Wounds that rapidly heal
Through the magic of words
Leaking in from mental hideaways.
Hear the Ink Hounds as they bay.

These crevices might seem dangerous
But I assure you it is prosperous
Word Weavers seem insane
But we want to entertain
And claim our own domain.

These characters seem real to us
We hold them close and know them, thus
They won’t leech mirth like Social Worms
Who love, then leave on bitter terms
Words aren’t a disease, don’t spread as germs

Rejoice that you have things to say.
The world rages on, but you have a way.
We trill with terror, with ecstasy
We want to know what we can be.

So the silken voice of the Story Spider
Might forever entrap you as a writer
But don’t panic; do you know why?
This strange gift can hoist you high.

The End

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