For S.E.P. and ἡ θυγάτηρ
The knit that stitches life is death’s
Iconic myth of passing time –
The knelling chime, the easing breaths….
But God bequeaths a weft to rhyme
Each woof his loom can measure out.
Excising doubt, He takes the same
From holy dream to indicate
Each tittled jot. Anonymous
In ignorance, though, men would quote
A public vote for muted loss:
When others miss the moment blessed,
The self, indexed, cannot confess
Its ends are loose – and so, perplexed
And piqued, it plucks a threadbare text.
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