A handloom, our souls are made of.
Each creating wondrous art.
With hands calloused and rough,
Each story has the same start.
On looms of gold, on looms of wood,
We weave our destiny and fate.
We weave the bad, we weave the good.
We weave our love and hate.
With strings of fiery red,
With strings an ocean blue.
We weave memories of warm beds,
We weave reminisces of cold tears too.
The times we remember, the times we forget,
They all create intricate designs.
And all those flaws, over which we fret,
Created art so fine.
On what we create doesn't matter though,
It does not define our art.
For our woven loom isn't just for show,
It is but, a reflection of the heart...
-TheHopeOfDusk
YOU ARE READING
Inked Musings
PoetryA collection of poems I've written over the years. I hope they reach another soul and give them the comfort they've needed for a long time :)
