"First-Person Space"

I sit at my loom, spinning my tales

Threading through words like silver lace

And yet I sense my vision fails

I met a figure on foreign trails

Who sought for me a safer place

Where I sit at my loom, spinning my tales

He left me here for brighter gales

Left alone recounting his grace

And yet I sense my vision fails

Honeyed skin for which my heart ails

Sea foam smile with sarcastic trace

I sit at my loom, spinning my tales

Cold breath, soft as a nightingale's

Distanced by mere first-person space

And yet I sense my vision fails

Changes expose that which time veils

And as hard as I try to conjure your face

Sitting at my loom, spinning my tales

I only fear my vision fails