Veronica, our fruitless misery is disintegrating, it is ready to be woven into your goodness. Perched alongside our grief, your happiness, fluttering wings of heaven and ballet in the air, moves across our cruelty with a shrieking love. Lurking near the exit with your carry-on baggage, photos dangling, offspring in tow, crooning of now, of immediate love, of kinship, your violet-blue flowers beckoning. O! Veronica, your mutiny is swift! Your tears at our death, man’s tattooed demise, absorb through our skin like a virus until they carry away our potent rage. Come Love, let us bow at her feet, make an art of her devotion and joy so we might remember she weeps. © 2010 by mark prime
(The Weaver's Song)