There are bullet holes in every tapestry here,
in every crooked room in this house
where the walls influx in scattered waves
and cripple at random.
There are tapestries hung at intervals here,
those masterfully-done artifacts which pale
when the burning walls collide.
They are colored to relieve some soreness of the head
but they are ruined quickly.
The weavers don’t shoot; nobody shoots,
but they make holes of their innocence lost,
their chaos ripping pellet sheets
by some ungodly rules of form
which dictate the beauty allowed.
And the weavers don’t weep; only the arsonists weep,
removing matter from space
by the ungodly rules of form
which dictate the sanity allowed.