With nimble hands, I wove my art,
A tapestry spun from the depths of heart.
Each thread a story, each stitch a song,
In mortal skill, where none belong.
The loom was mine, my gift, my pride,
In every pattern, the world complied.
Yet gods, they watch with a jealous eye,
To see a mortal touch the sky.
Athena came with wrathful glare,
A challenge born of pride’s despair.
She wove the heavens, grand and wide,
But still, my threads refused to hide.
In every weave, I dared to show
The truth the gods had feared to know:
Their faults, their folly, clothed in grace,
A mirror held to power’s face.
For this, my gift was torn away,
No human hands allowed to stay.
A twisted form, a cursed fate,
To spin in darkness, bound by hate.
Yet in my web, the threads remain,
A testament to mortal pain.
I weave the truth the gods can’t see—
That even cursed, I still am free.
2024 ©️
The Royal Octopus 