The Time Blanket

The fabric of time is finally woven.

He took his last breath

on a crisp autumn day,

and soon let his soul

slowly fade into grey.

But covering his body,

the shell that remained,

was the fabric of a life time

staying far from his grave.

The top square a wedding,

the bride dressed in white.

Another, a corner,

for when he left home to fight.

Centerfold shinning,

a little girl on her toes.

And the now old man sat smiling,

realizing what he behold.

The bottom was shredded,

few pictures were clear.

A doctor made up one of them,

and a soldier right near.

The colors on the edges

shimmered silver and black,

the cloth was all woven

of the things that stayed back.

The scent of hot coffee,

its aroma still strong,

radiated out from the blanket

even though he was gone.

An echo of a chuckle

rang out to those close,

so subtle the sound

it could have come from a ghost.

His body was broken,

his spirit had fled,

but the old quilt of time

still covered his bed.

For it is all that is left,

though more will come and go.

The stitches of a story

from Earth down below.