With a flick of hair over her eyes,
She carves intently a mysterious art.
Like a song following the rhythm,
Fireflies move around her heart.
She drives her imagination ,
Beyond the scope of my senses.
It's a gift of the grace,
To build without fences.

Dreamweaver makes it all,
For everyone's heart and
Dreamweaver wishes it all,
For everyone's dancing faces but
Who'll give her those dreams
Who'll make her free again

I live in a village not to far from a town where a Dreamweaver dances gleam full in the night's sky;
She runs with her violet flute bringing the dream she had to create;
They only ever followed her as she could never reach them;
She delivered them to people with better more beautiful prances;
If reached for by her they would flee;
The Dreamweaver did weep wanting to follow her dreams;
All she really ever did say was "Why?";
When she wept you could tell that she had given one away;
She had an idea so they couldn't get away to jump down a well;
She danced and played her violet flute down a small well in her town the dreams she wish she could keep following her down all the way; Once there she tries to grab one but all it did was become a wisp of her dream a dream that the Dreamweaver weeped.

That spindly spider,
I watch as he weaves
A tale of luring dreams. Of captivating fantasies
Trapped within those thin silk threads
A story only the privileged see,
Glistening with dew,
Beneath the gibbon moon,
The dreamweaver,
He makes for you a tomb.

Longing through lonesome days,
supplicating the sun to set.
I anxiously await your arrival,
should consciousness concede to what I covet.

Only in fanciful fantasies,
in the delight of darkness,
and in our notoriously nocturnal nature,
have I ever happened upon happiness.

Give me the gift of your grace,
the spell of your sweet surrender,
and the temporarity of tonight
will flourish into forever.

In the day I may wistfully wander
halfheartedly and uncommitted,
but in dreams I know not the words
lonely or unrequited.

You are the silk, I the dreamweaver,
Spinning, turning, rolling
On my head's wheels-
You became the intricate design,
Strangled and entangled me.

The required pattern orders me
To shear your conception.
But I can't and I won't
For my wheels
Will get frozen

There was once a man
who was known as the dreamweaver.
With eyes open, he knows he can.
Rarely could you hear him say 'Never'.
He stared at the stars
like he knew them one by one.
Never knew he had hidden scars
from a past never begone.

There existed a time
where dreams were weave
to be worn not to sublime.
To recieve nothing is what he believe.
'It is normal' he said
with conviction in his eyes.
It was a dead-promise laid
into a bed of ice.
With realization upon his face,
he began to think
that weaving was not a race.
It is saving something from the brink
of nothingness to become reality.
To become something to cherish.
To help a passionate entity.
To create a blissful wish.

With the whole galaxy in his hands,
he began to stretch the cosmic-fabric.
Shaking what dares to stand,
and to colorful music and lyric.
With happiness in his face,
he continued to weave and weave
until the moons began to cross maze
to chase a dream that began to leave.

He continued to weave until the galaxy
loses all of its life.
He knew it was his destiny
despite ending there he still strive.
'If only there was someone
who could weave the same as I do.
Then everyone will be left by no one.
No one is outgrew.'
There lies in his dream
the weaver of dreams
forever it was only him,
and his story in the cosmic-stream.

Night time steps in

And your presence stretches out

From my head to my bed.



As I spin the wheel for me

And for the world,

I pull together your fragments.

To rediscover, to refine pieces of you.



Morning snatches you away from me,

Dissipating your image to the sunlight.

Yet, it cannot dissolute the saccharine cravings

Or the savory memories from your embrace.

But I worry not, for I recognize

Even the microcosm of imprints left behind.



I can trace your hairline

Out in the arms, head or face

Of a passenger in the bus or train.

It was no wonder where to find you.

You were no stranger to my senses.



I can draw out your eyes

From stones of garnet or granite.

I can hear your heartbeat, your laughter from Irish violins

And Spanish guitars are your private echoes, your fondling whispers.



I can split the distinct outline of your smell

From cinnamon, vanilla and caramel;

Or figure the blueprint of your flavor

Out of morning dew or spring rain.



Tales of heroes from novels or poetry

Are narratives where I retrieve

How safe it felt to be with you.



I only ache for you in every fraction of my reverie,

The incessant reminder of my liquefied reality.

And in the evening you won’t get lost,

For I am all aglow, pointing you home.




Only in your hands

I can submit without dread

And you’re the sole being that knows

The second color of my eyes,

My fingers that memorize every hair trail

On your jaw line, chest and arms.



Your body is just attuned to my secret dance,

Breaking and making the iridescence of dreams.

Only you can read the symbols crowning my head

And kiss me like eternity is born from world’s death.



Earthbound spirits envy this romance of ours,

As Faes bless this furtive union.

So please don’t be far too long,

For even time and distance my dear

Are painful pleasures to my soul,

My addictive links to you.



I await your return tremendously, my lover.

Hold me still and play our song to sleep.

Don’t need to know if you’re my own design,

Or a pattern I recreated.

As long as we remember

What binds us together.

In the shadows of the day

And in the glimmer of the night.

fire, water, rock and air
dreamweaver;
the poets trade.