The Weaver of Veils

He sits, a weaver at his loom of lies,

Each thread a whispered comfort, soft and deep.

He shuts his eyes against the judging skies,

And buries truths in slumber, dark and steep.

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The world outside, a tempest of despair,

A symphony of sorrow, sharp and keen,

But in his chamber, fragrant with rare air,

He paints a canvas where the sun is seen.

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He crafts a kingdom where his word is law,

Where every smile is genuine and bright,

Ignoring shadows creeping, claw by claw,

That lengthen in the corners of the night.

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He sees the faces that he longs to see,

And hears the voices that have long since fled,

A phantom echo of what used to be,

A fragile solace for the living dead.

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But oh, the threads begin to fray and break,

The vibrant colors fading into gray.

The woven veil, for all the comfort's sake,

Can't hold the dawning truth another day.

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For in the silence, when the loom is still,

He feels the chilling breath of what's concealed.

The empty space his fantasies can't fill,

A lonely landscape, finally revealed.

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And he, the weaver, blind to what is real,

Awakens to a solitude profound,

The bitter price for dreams that never heal,

Lost in the echoes of a world unbound.