Weaving Our Robes From An Old, Broken Loom
Weaving Our Robes From An Old, Broken Loom
In this cold world, naked and helpless born
With coming sorrow expressed in first cries,
Soon fed false dreams and other useful lies,
Ever seeking more to oneself adorn.
In falling flight as a broken wing hawk,
Our sad dead bodies, not yet drawn in chalk
Are we mere pawns in this ancient world's game
Greedy hearts, seek others to chide and blame.
If manna from high Heaven fails to fall
Blind spirits joined together, cry and moan
Rejecting any true light ever shone
Living in darkness, its alluring call.
Not seeing our fated approaching doom
Weaving our robes from an old, broken loom.
Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2017
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