The Dreamweaver

Oh, dreamweaver. Touching lightly to the honey-coloured wall, above my bed. Why don´t you sing when the breeze stirrs you, slipping into the room through a window and (like a secret admirer) carressing your round edges.

Why don´t you hum when air plays inbetween your tightly woven strings, kissing the tiny beads in a lover´s whisper, a promise.

Why don´t you sigh when the morning-light embraces you, softens your shadows and breathes colour back into your body.

Is it difficult, to be adored this way? To be the subject of such passion? Is it tiresome, to move over ground that has been covered in kisses and carefully smoothed down to ease your way?

Oh, dreamweaver. Why the indifference?

The sun made such an effort. The breeze moved so carefully, the air was so gentle. Don´t they deserve a chance?

Your colours may be bright, and your strings may form a perfect pattern. Your pearls and beads may be beautiful.

Who tells you? Shows you? Makes you believe it?

Oh, dreamweaver. Be loved.


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