The weft is not of our choosing,
Nor the warp nor the weave so fine.
The colors are dyes of our own blood,
Yet we know not the design!
The threads are held by the Hand,
The Shuttle by Kismet is cast.
The form and pattern it takes is unknown.
The Weavers of fate hold fast.
The why of the weave is denied to us
Still, though we live or be dead,
Our fabric unfolds unmindful of time.
For the hand finds no end to the thread.
by Denis B. Cooper ©
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We publish poetry and music related to arts and entertainment. From jazz music to contemporary poetry, we cover it Our content is designed to inform, entertain, and inspire.
We publish poetry and music related to arts and entertainment. From jazz music to contemporary poetry, we cover it Our content is designed to inform, entertain, and inspire.
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