Thread Of Becoming

 

what is a life

but the needle’s pass

through the fabric of the void?

a pattern emerges,

not of our choosing,

woven by hands unseen,

guided by whispers

that ripple through the ether

god

is it the weaver,

or the thread itself?

is it the loom’s creak,

the spark of tension in the fibers,

or the silence between each stitch?

fate falls like rain

inevitable, indiscriminate,

are we the soil it nourishes,

or the rivers it carves,

or merely the reflection

on its fleeting surface?

a sigh of birth,

a gasp of death,

and all the fleeting laughter

in between.

the universe blinks:

a thought unfinished

does it dream us,

or do we dream it into being?

perhaps we are the loom,

its hum the rhythm of our hearts,

or the threads,

aching to unravel into meaning

perhaps we are neither,

only the breath that sets it all in motion,

and the silence when it ceases

perhaps life is the paradox:

the chaos of becoming

and the order we seek

A dance of entropy

and meaning

but when the loom stills,

when the last thread is cut,

what will remain?