Hands of the Soul Architect
Weave threads of flesh and silver,
His work is never done
I am still a work in progress
Each stage he undertakes
Is a part of myself I discover
The quill in his hands
Scribes me a new name in bold ink
A new birth; a claiming of my self
Demanding to be read and spoken
I breathe it out, giving it life
Giving me life
The Architect knows its worth;
It chooses its allies,
Refusing to leave my mouth
To the sceptics judging with stuffed ears
The Architect resides within the depths
His handiwork scrutinised by the masses
Yet I am his only witness
He speaks to me not with words
But with fragments of myself
He threads together
Halfway between hope and expectation
He tailors his blueprints to my imagination
Even without complete manifestation
The Soul Architect shows me a piece of me
That I finally recognise.