Existence, Never-Ending
She spun that twine
with deft fingers all aligned
to procure a line so strong,
that when the world was woven,
each thread and stitch so chosen to enrich,
the fabric as beauteous as could be,
and as fast as colors entwined, the key
to patterns so eloquent that remind us,
the impossible feat we see,
as existence.
And when she’d finished those myriad threads,
each one woven into an endless dream,
where life is possible in everything
and patterns key to mysteries held,
of worlds aloft in distant times impelled,
to look upon us here, and question as we do,
who we are under sun in woven time,
shown the possibilities to climb
the heights of cosmic truth,
and know.
Even now that woven fabric holds all life,
within time and space in God’s grace,
and stars like stitches outstanding,
mark the trails of patterned secrets,
glimmering light from times past demanding
the whispered truths of old,
as time pervades the bleak void of stories told,
like echoes of what before us came,
in name of life’s travail,
the fabric of forever.
And still she waits, to see her work unfold,
if need be a stitch or two to solve,
or remedy in broken memories,
when time forgets how old it is,
and stretched that weave in life’s reprieve,
when violence changes mold new beginnings,
and life ensues as it does in endless rhyme,
as time whittles away those cycles, blind
to all else that survives and evolves,
in existence, never-ending.
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