One of my old poems. fairly mediocre.
Our world is a quilted
Woven and wilted
Blanket tossed about the open sea,
And our dreams
Are unmended seams
Giving glimpses of the stuffings of reality.
The one who sewed
Our humble abode
Has dropped it but still works to find,
Before the end
Will he mend
The rips or will they further unbind?