The Pulling of a Thread

Life is spun from a thin line of thread

To weave a tapestry from birth til your dead

With a red tint for love and a blue tint for sorrow

A new thread is chosen each day on the morrow

Fate is the weaver whose crooked hands bind the ties

While time is the loom upward ever smaller as it flies

With every waking moment, you choose the next row

As the tapestry grows ever larger and the loom never so

When the last thread is stitched and the final tie made

This tapestry unfurled upon your casket is laid

Those who made up the threads be it in red or in blue

Share stories while pulling the threads that they knew