Made some slight edits:

Once upon the tapestry,
a pattern was born
to live and later die,
as by the template.

A new motif,
though, one of the many
six billion background patterns,
all blending.

In the gallery of time,
we are the only guests in exhibition.
Where are the future and past?
absent, unwoven and uncaring

the weaver,
who neither takes notice of our motifs,
as woven with the same thread;
we look too much alike.

Only we can see,
The now through the noise.
The meaning in our motifs
The beauty in the background.
The person in the pattern.

I accept this template,
this tapestry, this time.
But I will weave it,
and pull the threads myself.

By me,
Goodman