A short poem about death and string
25 April 2019

When doth a soul be sheared from life,
It’s string be cutteth short.
And scattered were about the land,
The frays of mortal sort.

A soul whom kindly pitied dead,
and sought to make amends.
He fared afar, collected thread,
and weaved a robe of ends.

The duty bore upon his back,
a coat that heaven faced.
To lead and find the misaligned,
unto the spool embraced.

pomp concept illustration

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