Tapestries

Tapestries

A soul cut from a different cloth,
to the beat of different drums
Despairing at the other moths,
striving the same suns

Strive with copied patterned wings,
it burns them all the same
A swarm of threads, a tattered thing,
the weaving of this game

With threads so fine against the heat,
unravelled with the turn
The background bears a different beat,
some tire from the burn

Sheltered in the shade that's cast,
from monoliths archaic
Draconic, they persist and last,
the shadows in their wake

What silhouettes in limbo, loom,
the fine print in the weave
With substance found in shadows gloom,
it's light we don't believe

In technicoloured dreamscapes play,
that precious few can grasp
If everyone could seize that day,
the goals would simply pass

Through fibres of the dream loom, fall,
if you don't think you're cut true
If you've no place for illusions' thralls,
they hold no place for you

With souls steeped beating wearier,
moths swoon, too blind to see
This cut is not inferior,
this world's not cut for me