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Vita Brevis

A grand tapestry
Frayed, entwined,
Some countless threads divined
As distinct paths tracing
A canvas across time

An incoherent textile
With threads cut short
Or spiraling across each other
Or thinning out slowly without a clear end
Or shifting hues wildly
Or changing material mid-thread
Or splitting into several strands

The tapestry’s prismatic snow
Is a scrambled mess by accident
Through endless purposeful motions
Each thread could have been anything
But it’s defined by not being the others

There is no weaver
The threads control themselves
And mesh together, detach, re-tangle

All began as one primordial knot
Which quickly unraveled,
Into an incomprehensible whole
Filled with beauty, terror, nothing, everything
Which can only be parsed strand-by-strand

And after decades of weaving
The fabric in tatters
Will become loose, lose threads
Until the tapestry ends
No threads left to extend
But still, it matters