we are
eight billion quilts
fashioned of threadbare cloth
stitched by blind hands
in a darkened room
uniquely alike
consistently different
or
are we
eight billion pieces
of patchwork pain
and remnant joy
a masterwork revealed
only when we see
not the threads of our lives
but the pattern of our existence
well said, Kurt
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Thank you for this moving poem.
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My pleasure.
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