Touches, fringes of life,
Hanging, waiting to be grasped,
Following the weave,
Of an ancient tapestry,
One constantly created,
And one waiting for moths to consume.
How do you bind the holes,
Back into a better state,
Where you can decipher,
The context and occurrences?
When they are repaired,
More is added to your section,
Of the growing fabric,
Winding its way through time.
Greater context is given,
For your existence,
And its possible paths.
Must you choose a guiding weft,
Dyed with madder or woad?
Colors saturating the world,
In the present,
And fading in the past.
Yet hues all the same,
Provide life,
And the weave meaning.
unknownclimate 