The tapestry
Spools of silken memory
unravelling fast
tightening knots
sometimes so taut
spinning in the distant past
and not so distant thoughts…
A weave so fine
so hard to define
in mindless mourning
slipping through time
soaked in timeless beauty
of a cosmic design…
The weaver unwavering
with effortless grace
weaving swathes of lives
deeply dyed in
richly textured pain
of such delicate a stain…
Only could love
be his silvery thread…
unravelling fast
tightening knots
sometimes so taut
spinning in the distant past
and not so distant thoughts…
A weave so fine
so hard to define
in mindless mourning
slipping through time
soaked in timeless beauty
of a cosmic design…
The weaver unwavering
with effortless grace
weaving swathes of lives
deeply dyed in
richly textured pain
of such delicate a stain…
Only could love
be his silvery thread…
Labels: poetry
Selected by Pincushion |
17:26 |
2 Comments:
:-) very beautiful picture. cud imagine the weaver sitting with his yarn.. or was it god... "only cuould love be his silvery thread"...
Reminded me of that advice doled out ever so often when you're down in the dumps - of how you're looking at the wrong side of the tapestry of life. What looks like an ungly mess of threads criss-crossing, pieces left undone and a tangled mass of knots is actually a part of a beautiful design on the other side...
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