Posted on September 7, 2009 - by amy senger
The Weavers
No one saw the weavers
The makers of the golden shrouds
Designed for insularity
And woven for posterity
Theirs was a lovely secret
Kept in mirrors and the clouds
A culture based in couture
A foundation built of mortar
Their garments such a finery
And yet were worn by all
The crimson crest embroidered
In pockets no one saw
The fabric bore a fine sweet scent
The product of such sudor lent
A softness born of optic fears
Twice ripened over prudent years
No one saw the weavers
Toiling at their looms
No one saw the weavers
Not even in the tombs
This entry was posted on Monday, September 7th, 2009 at 7:59 am and is filed under poems. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.
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