The Art of Cloth
Writing down the chosen words,
hurried in the onyx-shadowed night
Knowing that the luminous truth
hidden from the cleansing light
They must not fail to tell.
They brush away the salty stains
tinted with a touch of blood
And try to swallow all the pain
wrapped in prescriptive tiles
Like tiny marble tombstones
The language of visions seen
but not heard, drawn never voiced
Accented by tiny strands of spun light in
dimpled, colored cloth forever unworn
Layered with meaning measured divine.
The eyes of wisdom and understanding
look down on that which they have made
In their own immortal and spiraled image
their fingertips gently caress the surface
Their faces shiny and wrinkled in delight.