Past paints our threads brilliant colours,
Stories of incredible gains and incredible sorrows,
And intricate knots to make the world’s fabric,
A little bit real and a whole lot of magic.
The pity, my dear, is that beautiful things
Need more and more colour upon their strings
Or the stories start fraying and becoming dull
An unearthly party can’t be followed by a lull.
But there’s only some paint, and my, it’s expensive,
And harder to find shades even slightly impressive.
We have to trade sometimes from what we have,
So we take our past beauties and those we halve.
We lose appreciation, but the image of us
Shines harmoniously, from greys to golds thus.
That’s the secret why things that burn brighter
Reach their end faster, too expensive the fiber.
But I’m hungry for texture, not mellow colour,
I have no issue to change one shade for another,
And make the design from knots, in relief,
Adding new changes to something too brief.
When you care less about being brighter than some,
The threads last instead for many years to come.