Mixing florals, mixing patterns,
I want to wrap myself in prints
and create paisley damask distractions.
Textiles tailored for straightjackets.
The busy shapes fail to tessellate;
they cannot fool my senses.
I wrap myself in prints
as fingers wrap themselves around
the cross-stitch strings inside organs,
plucking fingerprint beats
and pulling pulling gentle persistence,
undoing what was sewn.
Beneath cotton hibiscus bruises
I see the imprint of you.
3 comments:
Finally a poem of your own and not by a mad person. Hurrah
Like (I couldn't find the Like button).
I put a comment on here yesterday, but it mysteriously disappeared...
Not by a mad person...hmmm.
And in regards to the comment, 'curiouser and curiouser' said Alice.
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