A Walk in the Parlour

The pattern turns blue, the pattern turns green;
Yet the pattern cannot be seen.
In the bright sunlight, the spider’s web gleams,
Swaying softly, like that elusive dream.

An outline of moisture, strung together like beads,
Waiting to be touched, waiting to be seen.
Hypnosis and desire get the better of me,
I fly towards my pattern, reaching for it in glee.

I lay there entangled, trapped in its hold,
Struggling in vain, for a miracle to unfold.
My elusive dream is gone, in its place lies me.
Waiting in dread, for my soul to be set free.