by Nick Gisburne
The creatures weave their cloth on bended knee,
A tapestry of nightmares they have known,
But those who fall behind, or fade, or flee,
Are rendered into shadows, to be sewn.
The legends of millennia, and more,
Chronologies of long-forgotten kings,
Are faithfully depicted. Worlds at war
Become the source of raw rememberings.
They never pause to question what they are.
The worth of it, the weaving, is their joy,
The annals of no ordinary star,
A legacy one secret must destroy:
The wonders that they weave with twisted strands
Are stories no one sees or understands.
