Prophetic Works

I'm not ready to say goodbye.

Weathered hands work at a machine,

Weaving together tapestry with robotic rhythm;

I can’t tell which one is more alive than the other.

Her works are prophetic, or so I’m told,

Cloth images that predict the future,

A silly game to play, so I play along.

 

She doesn’t look up when I near,

Limbs still moving to two metallic heartbeats;

Simply sliding more and more fabric out from her hold --

It folds onto the ground.

I look, but I don’t like what I see.

This game isn’t fun anymore.