I've nothing new to add to this, our story. I've nothing crimson or unique, nothing to bend in a new light. I've just me, myself to lend, this skin, my shell to wrap with a goodness, not mine, but of me. I’m moving under the beam of sun, the joy raised up to the light, a servant walking lightly, careful of the burden in my gait, in the silent request of my affections. I've nothing new. Nothing that’s crimson or unique, nothing to bend in a new light. Without the knowledge of that which truly matters, how could I? © 2010 by mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)