Work Of The Weavers

*Gasp!*
Barely catching my breath.
Almost asphyxiated on saliva.
Being only half concerned about my health,
Feeling extracted from an unwanted world.
No, not an unwanted world,
In a world that has it's dose of me.
And pulls me out sweaty in my own juices.

But not that it matters.
Dreams have an intricate way of telling a message.
One can never see the work of the weavers,
Until he has seen the full picture.

So what point does it make seeing you?
Enjoying life merrily like you always wanted,
It's not that I'll never get it too.
But what point is made
From a vision of someone who seemed,
Seemed to have slowly faded away?

Alas, not much can be said.
But recurrence, seems to be significance.
Once close, now so far away.
Found myself writing this. Hmm...