The Wordsmith

Be it the moon, the sun, or the stars,
Or all of these celestial troves,
That does perchance to glisten and glow,
Cascading thoughts in showers of gold.
And the wordy wordsmith weaves
His treasured tapestry of life.
When night is day and day goes on,
And nothing is real, save all that is not.
Prophetic as the harbinger,
Yet knowing not what will tomorrow be,
For the eyes are blind of sight,
And all they see is everything.
So watch as the fisherman casts his net,
Of silver waves that writhe and thrash,
Until enmeshed becomes the World,
And in his trawl are all of these precious words.