Patterns of life were constant leave-takings and judgmental failures
Always in other eyes

The task was to learn to weave a cloth that is whole, the substance of youth
Was created from lies

In far younger days the loom was quite broken, threads of that life
Were severed and torn

The weaver was lost in the scorn of self-loathing, in spite of much effort
No pattern could form

Yet the river of life ran strong, deep and wide and rhythms of others
Drummed strong in my head

I had to look out to see what grew around me, place my feet on a path
To find out where it led

From the microcosm of me to the universe of all, I beheld many marvels
Life was more than a dream

The only treasure worth having is the jewel of yourself, to possess this rare bauble
You must be what you seem

So the pattern came clear for the weaver to see, the loom that was broken
Was now fixed and polished

Soon the cloth could be woven with honor and trust, crisscrossed with some humor
The past was abolished.

The garment of life worn only by its maker made of threads we call choices
Belongs only to you

It cannot be hidden, disguised or tossed out, you wear the garment you weave
It is what you do

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