Philosophy, Poem, Poetry

The Weaver

Step out to the outer edges of comfort,
Scream loud till the back of your throat burns,
Run till the throbbing of your heart becomes,
A thumping that is continuous like a horse’s gait.

Cast out (loudly) the fears and tears,
That plague your rotten heart,
Cast out the ghosts and the demons,
That whisper gently in the dark…
Awaken the corpses of broken dreams,
Chisel away at the stone that is your soul,

Blame not the annals of a prewritten fate,
The ink was forever in your hands.

Fate is merely  a few threads of cotton,
thrown into a blind weavers hands,
Weave O blind one Weave,
Weave with the colors of the rainbow,
Drench it in the tears of the stars…

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