Edward Jones Poet I do not know?

Tapestry of Pain

TAPESTERY OF PAIN

If I transpose my reality into something tangible,
show you the collective fabrics that weave the tapestry of what is my life, 
the when, where, how, and why, 
what you would see is a tattered cloth, 
very aged, and very worn by misuse, 
unclean and stained by the past, 
with no more then patch work repairs meant only to sustain its integrity, 
though rough and hardened by years of abrasive motions, 
and here and there the occasional weft hangs limp and lucid, 
and its once soft virgin wool is now “corpse like” in texture, 
then  discarded for the shear repugnant odors that emanate from the now sallow 
rags, 
used beyond the point of having any remaining value, 
if you can comprehend the uselessness I feel, 
the exasperated folly that is my life, 
then your eyes have opened to a reflection in a mirror that casts an image of me, 
when I am not there, 
for I am but a reflection of all of you, 
in a mirror you cannot see.

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