Tapestries of Joy

Let's touch the sunshine on a flower.

We'll tread the comfort of the green.

Come use the minutes of the hour,

To be where no one's ever been.

There'll be no more disillusionment with yesterday's betrayal.

You'll find nothing else to hurt you, when you're flying in the breeze.

You'll be free from apprehensions brought by that which once did fail.

If you're looking for Tomorrow, take Forever's hand and squeeze.

Let's ride the words in Testaments:

Both New and Old are words well spun.

Old teachings help in present tense,

As children step towards the Son.

When the Psalmist wrote his worries down, and documented how

His Creator had them all in hand and quickly turned the tides;

He was taking steps to bring us comfort in the Here-and-Now.

We'd be given Tours of Peace, with ancient writers as our guides.

Remember waking up on hills,

In tents (you'd pitched in darkest dusk),

And snapping long developed stills;

Then lighting fires to toast some rusk*.

We'll improve on youth camp teenage dreams you might have thought dissolved,

When we live new dreams together, made to last all time, by grace.

Painful pasts will come up empty, when the Future gets involved

With our chances to repair my own, and yours, if we embrace.

The car park stands as our divide;

But only if you still just drive,

While I'm too hurt myself inside,

To reach to you, not just survive.

We could travel from the damage done, without expecting more;

And include the precious ones along. I'd welcome instant friends,

While they're young, so that they don't see me and them as either/or;

And then several years need not be lost, as broken heart pretends.

So travel far and reach the thorpe,

If that's the place you feel you'd find

A better world beyond the warp,
Where golden hopes are not yet mined.

All the stitches (which could mend the wounds imposed by careless horns)

Build the Tapestries of Joy as well, for both of us to weave;

And the flowers (that I spoke of) will stand high above the thorns.

New Day sunshine waits to greet us, if you're open to believe

*rusk: bread.