Find Me a Tailor

A poem of personal struggle

These rags are my words,

Scattered about made of thin worn out cotton , shredded ends as if ripped from the garment it once made up

These rags

 

hold so much meaning

The memories of the warmth of the sun on hilltops

Cool autumn days and the sound of leaves beneath feet that once walked with purpose

 

Now greif stricken patches scatter among land that is no longer in possession

forgotten

Not thrown out

But lost

Not destroyed

But unfounded

Now untravelled

And silent

 

These rags cause my hands to bleed

dull needles and ineptness

 

Lull these rags to sleep

Dip them in the ointment that leads to numbness

And keep them sacred still

For the grandness is now not much

Once holding the hopes Kings and all those fairytailish things

Of dreams worth dying for

 

Do not be deceived by objects so torn and withered

These rags…my words…agents of my soul

Face the ongoing weather and the

Continued shredding

Hope no longer a question

But what its essence rests upon

With the full assurance that these withered and deft things which

At one time meant so much…have numbers attached…

Numbered patches of the softest cotton…

Wishing to be patched together

Once again…

 

 

 

Author's Note

ignore grammar problems, otherwise - anything goes