The Weaver...

The southern wind engulfs me
as I imagine her hair falling
on her face like a serpent,
writhing in its moon-dance.
Thought is the only hermitage
I can seek as the wind recedes
into fatality.Now I am left with the
azure sands of patience, to perhaps
find that stream to quench my thirst,
which cuts through the desert like a
determined trickle of life.Threads I
have had enough, woven enough to
see them shape up into shapes of
obscurity.Now that the yarn is new
and stronger than ever before....shall
I weave a last one? Perhaps a souvenier
like object hanging on her wall;reminding
her sparingly of the weaver who carefully wove
with bleeding fingers to make himself a name,
a memory to rest on and to hope with,
making her life worth living-even without me.
Am not here like hungry Ullyses who could
return from the windy plains of Troy. I am a mere
mortal who loves and decays in it, to nurture the
belief in itself on the barren fields of wants.
I will have my battles and she hers. Many
of them unspoken and unsung. But what I
give her will be something to live for and
not to die. Something to cherish and never
to be defied. Not to cut through her when I am
no more, but to edge her on and soothe her
for she will have a reason to live on for a ME
fatally absent. I want to be like Donne's compass
having a common point even when the needles
stretch forth, at least I am trying to....
Lost in reason was I before I loved, before I knew
its angst and pains, but the untold joy I tasted
in them bears fruit everyday in thousands
of unloved souls.Now my needles are rusty
and the yarn broken. I have done that, breaking
every single one of them and hammering them
to dust? Am I insane?? No I am not! I have carefully
erased their lives because I have one now... at last
when I thought I am eternally dead. Now I dont need them,
like a selfish mortal who seeks means to an end
so did I. The weaver is now a poet, raised from his
rusty coffin to write again but with an aura of life in him.
So, no more will you see me sharpening my needles
and placing my yarns. But if by chance you do,
be sure that love is a lie.... trying to awaken you
but perpetually dead.