'The Weaver's Thread' By Ink Soul Poem by Ink Soul

The Weaver's Thread by Ink Soul

I am the Weaver, elder than flame,
Mine hands unseen, yet still the same.
Through shadowed years I've none to name,
Yet all thy grief becometh frame.

'Neath banyan vast, with roots that claim,
I gather sighs, thy loss, thy shame.
The river chanteth hearts that came,
The mountain groaneth age and blame.

Why dost thou roam, though none exclaim?
Thy soul is fire, thy flesh is lame.
I twine thy peace with war's fell game,
Thy rise and ruin—both the same.

In market's throng or woodland frame,
Where hush doth dwell or tongues inflame,
I stitch the past, no man can tame,
Of banners torn and sacred flame.

Wilt thou draw nigh and speak thy name?
And feel the threads of love and fame?
Each knot a prayer, each strand the same,
A fleeting truth in deathless frame.

Come hither, soul, cast off all shame,
Add thine own thread to woven flame.
For I the Weaver, none can claim—
And thou, the heart, the hallowed name.