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Poem

Lay atop our great abyss an ancient tapestry,
an ornate picnic rug, upon which many will sit,
exhorting the tales of its tattered threads.
Tall tales of scholars of sort,
that made deities of fortune tellers.
Gluttonous sitters will long rest
on the laurels of scholars ago,
oppressing other sitters at will,
like captains sailing their crew to
an isolated island of ideology,
overseeing famine to precede it with fear.
Many will die for the vanity of a threaded theology.
 
Threadbare is each edge of this ancient tapestry,
a much trodden path, upon which many will stand,
thinking their thoughts fixed, free and fair.
They will proclaim their opposition
to the sitters and their story tellers.
They will listen with their lips,
marvel with their fingertips.
Most standers will become long
voyeurs of the sitters’ struggles,
moving in an instant, one image to the next,
shouting the glory of their freedoms,
which they will fence off with a barricade.
 
In places worn is the weave of this ancient tapestry,
scattered windows at which all the wisdoms will gather,
wondering why and wandering far.
Endeavouring to understand,
as only passing through dwellers,
here and there, in our great abyss,
they will embrace the exploration,
not fixed upon a destination.
Wisdoms will long for this antiquity;
great of its time; not to provide
an adornment beneath which
our great undetermined abyss may hide.

© 2016 Margo Cami [www.margocami.com]

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