Her Tapestry

She weaves night into day,

glistening trace amounts

of flickering pastels

into burgeoning maelstroms

who mingle their fancies,

ticklish to every bold color

in every rainbow

eons from being.

 

Her heart in every colossal outburst.

Her life in every major and minor,

the music of the universe.

 

She weaves day into night,

circling the moonlit spires

of outstretched greenery,

who sway vainly

beyond tender breath

to romantic attractions,

brightly shimmering isles

lording over creation.

 

Her heart in every whispering splice.

Her life in every newborn cry,

the music of the universe.

 

Why has She forsaken me

when I need her most?

Why has She not?

 

She is motion and being

as all is motion and being,

even in unbelief,

for the stars cannot believe

and are yet believed in

to grant wishes

to believers of good fortune,

what we weave for ourselves.

 

She cannot forsake me

when I am not believed in.

She cannot forsake Herself.

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