Weavers Poem by C H Sund

Weavers
Tapestries are strewn
across this chasm world,
lines woven through centuries,
humanities colors imbued.

Many stains these carpets carry
edges ragged and threads bare
patterns seemingly chaotic,
the centers though, never frayed.

Yes, recorders of history past,
and portents of future lines.
The looms never stopping weaves
and as stitching sings the world chants.

But if the final tapestries must end
what then the verdict of quality spun?
Who will view our offerings proffered
and say: 'that was the work of man.'

And be proud.