There are no two things that are the same, a blessing and a curse whispering my lessons with trembling lips and driving my red face down into dust. Might I triumph this round, stagger to my corner with legs of rust? When the sun glints its breath over the seas and streams golden air across the span like a garden of sunflowers, I have to laugh at the breadth of my stupidity. Most damp and dim and without good reason my native Love’s been sabotaged leaving hemorrhaging corpses heavy upon my back, as if I hadn’t enough to carry, enough blood to wash from my slothful hands. I keep coming back to faith with a vulture’s famine, hunched over a torrent of veins, cleaving the shadows laughing beneath my beak. I return again and again in search of a sunken truth, like a hound on the scent of wide-eyed rabbits darting in and out of the brush, ears unready to hear, eyes exhausted from panic, legs hammering their noise against the thing most lethal to reason; fear. There are no two things
(The Weaver's Song)