The Tapestry
by Walt Hicks
Like a brooding shroud, the Tapestry hangs in a forgotten corner of an ancient museum. Dark and bleak, it is an unblinking history of humanity—voracious thirsts and desires, mindless savagery, fevered bloodletting. Ever-changing, it appears differently to all who dare view it, constantly swirling like the Gyre of Life and Death.
I mustn’t look at the hideous tableaux, yet I cannot turn away. I mustn’t touch it; else I am forever drawn into its nightmarishly unfathomable depths.
Pulled deeper and deeper into its demonic artistry, too late I realize it isn’t a tapestry at all.
It is a mirror.
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