A poem about nature's best craftsmen
Is there any better breakfast, Than to swallow impermanence whole, And wash it down slowly, With painkillers and earl grey tea.
I’m counting each thought, As it sweeps past dusty ceilings.
I’m watchful to all the cobwebs, Intricate creations bouncing light off woven air. Testament to the endurance of good craftsmanship.
Each endued with personality and vice, Artistic license to seize your prey, With the grace of an 18th century sonnet.
Each thread catching droplets, Of morning dew and fresh blood.
The natural joy of the first signs of daylight, Is to be born to a new day, With another’s last breath.