Vernon S.

                                  The Art of Cloth                                    

    Writing down the chosen words,

        hurried in the onyx-shadowed night

    Knowing that the luminous truth

        hidden from the cleansing light

    They must not fail to tell.


    They brush away the salty stains

        tinted with a touch of blood

    And try to swallow all the pain

        wrapped in prescriptive tiles

    Like tiny marble tombstones


    The language of visions seen

        but not heard, drawn never voiced

    Accented by tiny strands of spun light in

        dimpled, colored cloth forever unworn

    Layered with meaning measured divine.


    The eyes of wisdom and understanding

        look down on that which they have made

    In their own immortal and spiraled image    

        their fingertips gently caress the surface

    Their faces shiny and wrinkled in delight.