I wear myself like
a threadbare
Christmas jumper,
full of holes,
stitches left frayed
and hanging
in the biting air.
I just hang there,
sort of misshapen.
Out of place most of the year,
but still hanging in there,
through nights of bitter cold.
I wear myself like
a torn old cardigan
of my timespan,
unfashionable,
but warming.
But now
it is barely
holding together,
through too many years
of harsh bad weather
the strands are starting to untether.
The loose threads
starting to swing
in the wind like
the bell of time just
about to ring.
I wear myself like
an old woollen sweater.
A pullover not a pushover.
The strands are stained
with yesterday’s dreams.
The wool stretched and thin
like my aged, strained skin,
the wear and tear
I’ve put it through.
The weather it has gotten used to.
It has been in a storm or two.
Keeping the harshest of rains
from soaking my soul within.
I wear myself like
a worn old jacket,
checked, and defected.
All the bits and pieces
of whom and where I’ve been
stitched into the lining,
but now the stuffing
is coming out at the seams.
Neglected it sat
in times gone past,
but now it wears me like
a suit of who it once
believed it would be,
back when it was new
and it had dreams
it wished would come true.
Thanks for reading
Follow this link for more.
https://linktr.ee/Wordsandfluff
continue to do this.
Peace, Love & Poetry
Kyle
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