The Well-Tempered Atelier

On fragments' wait the kind stitching hand,
Now serves at the veil of day,
To every stray inconsistent strand,
It tends... to tempered array.

"Condemned to multitudes incoherent I -
Retrace my steps through dispersed ties,
In these depths who lay or in circles run,
Non-beings of ecstatic delusion!"

"Condemned to reasonless nethers I -
Pursue my vagrant parts untied,
Who deride, revel in fresh freedom's wake,
Here a gaze, a head, there a bloody neck!"

On fragments' wait the kind stitching hand,
Sublimes at unveil of day;
Whence wither the false, oddities disband,
To proud finitude give way.