filigree fit between the furrowed brow
lie-lit eyes; a beacon borrowed to bribe 
and oh, how they flail, fail and fall
fighting the corpuscle demanded
despite the derivative droning on, and on.

'lo and behold,
the weaver, the Priestess, the sovereign
bending to break, but cautionary; a spine
fit to bear the weight of many epics and
legends, aloft wit, to invite witness.

what more could the loom hold?

the static tics lay silent; silk, satin and twill
the embroidery frame; devoid of drivel
but the spindle...the spindle calls cradle
where the universe lies in fragments
begging to be spun into the lattice
and Become.

the Reaping; reincarnation rewritten recurs
the crystal graveyard where creation goes to die
is drawn and divided, strewn stars and beams
gathered in ivory arms and ebony hearts
are set to the spindle; and it spins on, and on.

from the depths of devotion
to the corners the curs drop their cruelty
spanning the horizons of hardship and hate
and extracting the ecstacy of eminence
whipping the weak and willful alike
to Create, finally...Create.

but to Create is never enough;
gathering those that grant you the thread
and now, the weaver.

how shall the spinster stir to serve us next?

what story could be told, in the lay of our apathy
that the flimsy freedom we bite noose and neck for
is merely an illusion to perpetuate our true fetters?

no, we could not be convinced.

but on and on,
she sets the loom, wets her fingertips and begins.

conjuring the crone, she initiates and annoints
willing wisdom to the weave; an unerring wander
pulling the fools from their fires, 
and the hubris from their halls.

enshrining the mother, she envokes and endures
inviting the ignorant and intellect; a place at her table
and afore the forges of old
asks before she answers.

vindicating the virgin, she validates and provides 
vanquishing the foes that flee her violence
her virtue a stronghold
adolescent and ancient.

the give-and-take balance required
an exhausting energy expanding into
the spaces between ever and never
finally relents into another cycle;
a war waged on unequal elements

where all is divided

the doubts of the dreamers
and the hopes of the hungry
the surges of the strong
and the shame of the spent

and a last soul shimmering on a shoreline
waiting for the wielding tide to crash into Creation;
to finally Be.

but the story?
the story goes on, and on.