The Weaver of the Night
A sonnet on Arachne, the weaver who dared to challenge a goddess and was transformed into a spider.
The loom is set with threads of morning mist,
To capture every god in silk and gold.
With every turn and every flick of wrist,
A scandalous and secret tale is told.
Athena watches from the marble hall,
To see her glory mocked in woven light.
The tapestry is hung upon the wall,
A masterpiece of human, daring sight.
But pride is met with sudden, stinging rain,
The wooden frame is shattered on the floor.
A life is shrunk to fit a smaller vein,
To spin and drift behind a hidden door.
With eight thin legs she weaves her silver snare,
A ghost of art within the dusty air.
The Breath of the Mountain
A sonnet on the Dragon, the ancient hoarder of gold and fire.
Beneath the roots of peaks that pierce the sky,
He sleeps on beds of rusted, heavy coins.
The smoke of centuries is drifting by,
Where darkness and the mountain's shadow joins.
An amber eye is cracked to see the thief,
Who crawls through tunnels narrow and cold.
Their life is but a flicker, sharp and brief,
Against the weight of prehistoric gold.
A sudden roar that makes the cavern shake,
As scales of iron grate on jagged stone.
The sleeping fire begins to stir and wake,
To claim the kingdom that is his alone.
No sword can pierce the heart of ancient flame,
Nor any man forget the dragon's name.
No comments:
Post a Comment