In the fragile dawn, I wake,

To the call of looming thread,

A craft pursued to elevate,

My humble, lowly stead.

The loom stands tall, a daunting frame,

Its wooden bones, they mock,

Each thread a path to nobler name,

A door with gilded lock.

But as I weave the earnest strands,

My hopes they intertwine,

With fears of clumsy, fumbling hands,

That tangle, knot the line.

The weave is tight, a cruel jest,

Each pass, a jeer, a taunt,

An art that won't be second-guessed,

Its mastery, it flaunts.

The nobles pass with woven gowns,

Their silken threads do dance,

My cloth, it wears a thorny crown,

Of brambles, not of lance.

Each day I face the biting loom,

Its lessons harsh and stern,

A quest for grace, it does consume,

A nobility, unearned.

The loom, it holds a scornful gaze,

A judge with heart of stone,

But still I dream of gilded days,

While weaving hope alone.

So in the loom, my fate does lay,

In threads of toil and strife,

With each new dawn, I'll face the day,

And weave the cloth of life.