What tapestry on some crumbling wall
had that sad misfortune
to steal its threads from my repertoire
and weave into unsatisfaction.
And spill upon it blood and ink
of those that I’d forgotten,
and wipe away what stains I left
when I had still been broken?
And why should seamstress continue working
on an artwork solely done
and forsake that which she reprimanded herself
to walk dark the side of sun.
And weave ribbons of silver
into her once youthful hair,
why should she scar every finger
with needles that don’t care?
And then pass blind to some weak soul
as if I had some clue
how to rescue my small part of this world
with needle, thread, and rue.
And use that which enslaves my tender
heart beneath a womb
to believe that this sweet tapestry sanctuary
will someday become my tomb.
And the sun stops tanning pale, burned shoulders
and my face so gray beneath,
I fear that I shall meet this woman,
as sparsely as I believe.
And should I have that audacity
to believe that I cannot serve;
well what course shall Karma serve to me?
Something less than I deserve.
And should I stop weaving, stop spilling blood and ink
and erasing my own stains,
surely the beasts of otherworldly hells
will shoot poison through my veins.
But I have aged, as others in youth
have never in their time.
I’ve no ill will, no broken past,
so I replace those pains for mine.
I reweave every strand of hope,
recleanse every heart,
but when did I become this guardian
that is tearing me apart?
All of these nameless faces, in this vast, ever-shifting crowd,
some ghost of vacant spaces spill into eyes of those around.
They try to say they’re broken, but they’ve never shattered true before
because they aren’t neck-deep in ocean, crying that they won’t do this anymore.
These people betray deception as if it were some frolicking fool.
Paying tribute to this poisoned resurrection, etched into mind of stone as some steadfast rule.
And to this devil lain in hammock woven by silver thread dew-stained by self-wrought tears,
an occupation that has been stolen, to lay in that barren waste cleared out by human fears.
These people tell me that they are broken, that I would never understand.
But with faith and risk I evaporated my ocean, and retaught that simple way to stand.
And these nameless faces in this shapeless crowd, risk nothing, pay no toll,
would not give life, give voice or sound, would not give up each piece of their soul.
They would not bleed their hearts for love, cannot drown in their mistakes
because they have sacrificed or tainted dove, nor written his name in pen that cannot be erased.
This poem is meant to illustrate the idea that without risking everything, love cannot exist. I truly do believe that is true. Love is not easy. It does not come gift wrapped in a nice little box. It is hard. And too many people walk away after one little thing. Love is worth fighting for but you actually have to fight. Risk everything. Dive in head first. If you drown, so be it. You’ll come back up hurt, yes. But you tried, and it wasn’t meant to be. Then you try again. And again.
Some people get hurt and never try again. But love, true love is worth getting hurt a thousand times.