The tapestry (poem)

The tapestry is old
Threadbare
Pulled apart slowly over time
Bleached by the light of day
And dust has settled upon its face

It was once beautiful and refined
With rich colours woven throughout
The envy and pleasure of those who gazed upon it
And now its ignored
Passed by
Forgotten

It waits to be restored, recaptured, and loved
It hangs there, day after day hoping to catch the eye of a passerby
But the gaze that falls upon it is fleeting
a spark of interest, a glimmer, an acknowledgement and then gone as
Life gets busy

And like that tapestry. Love will hang there
Until it doesn’t
Until it can no longer hold itself suspended
The props that held it aged too, frayed, and let go

And the passerby might notice something different
A spot clean where the art used to hang
And find in a moment of despair that all that remains is crumpled and destroyed

And he may pull it out from behind the furniture
Hold it gently in his hands
And feel a sadness for the beauty, the love, that used to be
A reminiscent glory and a bitter anger for mismanaged time

And he’ll gather the ruins of what remains
And while on his knees
He’ll bid it a sad adieu
And like the tapestry
The love he once treasured so much, will lay limp and wasted and gone
A sad day indeed

The day love dies in his arms

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