WordsmithThey call us weavers and we are, both more, and lessWe are the world-makers and the mind-wakersThe ones who send songs out into the darkness trying to catch a sparkThose quiet souls who paint canvasses on portraitsThose half-mad wanderers of alleyways rambling half-drunk in the streetsWe who ignore all stop signs and tend instead towards cloud formationsWe are the ones who guard the doorways and throw exits onto wallsWe are the mourners at twilight and the revelers at duskThe ones who march through glass houses weighted with stonesThose rash cats of days gone by playing at mere shadows of gloryThose broken players dreaming
but nice shot