Forget the dead donkey.

[cidermaid]

(Part ii of iii - part i = How the weave a donkey, found below in mild)
 
Forget the dead donkey.
 
A relief on a throw shows
two dimensional donkeys
trapped in a tapestry.
 
The donkeys don’t know they are dead.
Pleasure fed days, led to lusty delights;
a pose held in threads.
Isolated on their woven stage,
 
they wait for the blinding flash
to cauterize the forgetful flesh.
The leading light is lost,
gnawed by the bray of inmates.
 
The key to the cage
is a silver chord,
center eye threaded.
 
A flint spark starts the exchange.
Fire branded lambs; stand-ins
to man up the part, depart
to the left of the curtain cleft.
 
Winning by a neck they race
down from the red rock face;
blackened and hairy. Chased
by the shadows of cheetahs.
 
The last panel depicts:
A pile of un-ground grain spilling
over the cloak-cum comforter.
 
A corner of cloth covers
four dust encrusted feet.
A days worth of grain is ignored.                    
The sleeper greeted, restored.
 
Within the folds a story is told;
wood and knife burden, wife
and life limb -- up-trades made.
The dead donkey speaks.