Friend,
you will know who you are
by the end of this poem.
I refuse to give you dishonest words -
I refuse to mend the holes in our cloth
with nylon string, though it might be strong
though it might make things last long
drawn up into a stiff smile.
You know me - I am a silkworm
to the bitter last, and if I can't spin the
thread from a bright worm heart,
no matter how small, I wont
spin the thread at all.
You are not always concerned with me.
But you are the kind who keeps a hand
on the fabric of your life, feeling for worn parts,
always ready to re-sew, to make new,
and so you know of my silence.
What shall I do?
Shall I lie to you?
No, I will instead
keep my mouth closed
like a tomb.
Maybe the dead will rise,
but, God knows, they usually don't.
May the God of peace keep your heart
strong and warm and free from dark.
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