Day 13: Loom

Red eyes

Is it fury, the well so deep, to heal the heel, to sleep forthwith? My wrists in back potion weave a snare, insight left, yet one what pair? And on the backdrift, the breach lit find, the hands, yours, and eager chime? And what are your hands, the eye tilted let, to see an angel lift to set? Or hands in fame, the light maintain, what eager trophy a crop held sane? Mercy has the two wrists breach, the eyes slanted sideways, to a tailor rich, yet on the angel birthing fame, what pride I will collect, in the clay my stain. Worthy trophy, a being of worth, reflexing work, that pride stain sort, yet sorted breach, around my corpse lay, what shame, my head, I cannot tilt say? Red eyes please, your lift, my finger, do not throw the head please gift, I will tailor the eye to an upper tear, the eyes lit red, to sow a fear? On the pedestal pride to show, I can not dig for a weapon grow, just a seed, as ripe as rain, the sight, two drips, an angel angered tame? Come sow me greet, the hips extend, the moon the bull, the horns to lend, that if pride is track then send me a whack, the sleeping mission tended track? Come now see, the seer chuckle web, his gift, his riddled with a web, that a spider eating fortune glow, would find the hips, all feedings know? Find the track, the witch head wrack, the tempest spider, flown in paradise whack, and see the birth, the web, eye gleaned, the tears, the salt, the crop so seamed. An eye to finger, the loom so set, the witch, the ember, reflected fletch, and with a hiss, the globes her lessons, the woven spider, pried lessons tenders? And with the loom the globes to eye, her furnace lit, to a shelter witchcraft sigh, and then in tender knit so low, what pig is left, for tender know. Find the drip the eye woven sleet, the web is crawling to one spider knit, and a loom of fingers never touched, the skill, the pedestal, the art so lit.