Double stitched laces

Her dreams are laces and lingerie

Her hands weave them 

yet her body has never felt its silken grace

Her dreams are warm winter nights

Her plight is cold porridge

The magic of her gentle threads

Has lit flames in many a beds

Her's is a cotton worn out sheet

A pillow of stuffed rugs

Yet she sees the ply, with utmost care

What feeds her may never be her's to wear

Yet as all vagabond poets and street artists

She can dream

A dream is all her strength

Often to weave the best, to hem them

And she shall, forever be at it

Until her eyes and hands are able

I'll come to you with the summer rain

Ease the thirst, carve you pain

then evade you, and dissuade your yearn

Vanish into the fading night

Then when you shall seek me

I will refute your claims of love

At best torment, At worst adorn your laments

wear it as my crown, mock you in my court

You are but a jester, are you not!

for you seek to amuse me, make me joyous

Then such shall be your bidding

Shall shall be your binder

Invoke my craving, curdle in woe

Show me you cannot carry anymore

Then let me reach out, touch you again

Stab your soul, bathe in your seething pain