It was I who once wove the cloth of dreams,

Merriment was the weft and haft and desire

Was quenched at each pass of the shuttle.

My feet on the peddles danced a dance

Of fantasy – a dance amidst clouds in a starlit sky.

The sound of cloth forming whispers secrets

And laughter, the fresh, crisp patterns

Delightful scenes upon my eye.

But now the loom is broken – only tattered rags remain

The only sound a mournful silence and the shattered frame

That once supported weft and haft is now

Not much more than splinters.

And 'midst it all the stilled shuttle lies –

A dusty oddment by a forgotten door,

Silent testament that I shall weave no more.