The mirror now stands before us, Torn sleeves and skin, she's come to watch the sorrow dripping down, the sap of our veiled shame, our abysmal indifference… Disgrace, the fickle comrade, has not discouraged her, kept her from loving us fully though she’s been seen weeping in the temple of mankind. We try to imagine her echo shattering man’s tall ceiling and the sharp storm falling down over the world, we even imagine massaging the ache from her body but our hands remind her of her fathers. Bleeding out across the landscape, she covers her eyes with our callused paws and the pale swag of decay As we step away, stagger back from ourselves, unable to let go, our scent upon her pain. The mirror speaks to us and tries to hold us in, to rescue us a small piece at a time as our rooted shame draws back our arms to strike- caught in this snapshot of our pre-existing condition we look stunned, wild animals paralyzed by the light. © 2009 mrp/thepoetryman American
(The Weaver's Song)