Firmament

To weave of the firmament tapestry
Of meaning and meeting on loom of doom
As if the stars were not the worn out husks
Of fires sent long ago to cold exile

We know in ourselves of ourselves and there
We are incomplete, open to glory
Of defeat in everything we attempt
That touches our far flung and frayed fringes

We are marvelous even in despair
When we wish fervently to rid ourselves
Of ourselves this burden we donkeys bear
Braying occasionally to vent our brains

There’s no simulating seeming we are
Weave what we may the ends know to stay loose