A thin lining
Of a cloud, of dreams, of hopes.

Some are woven like buttons
And dinners and diamonds,
Others,
Like quilts
Of bursting candies and flowers.

A patchwork tapestry of wonderful colours and patterns,
A mix of darks and brights,
Sown of various styles,
Not to mention of different size

If and when the button rips,
And when or if the quilt tears,
We pardon not the makers of dreams,
But forget the hopes that was promised then.

Isn’t it strange?

The threads are woven in different ways,
And yet.
We fail to realize how loosely the threads are hanging.