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.