A Stitch In Time Would Have Saved
I examine precious chattels dormant in my locker
for signs of infestation from aggressors of altruism
then darn gaping holes in an order purely random
watching time slip by when locked in a cauldron
of fear and trepidation from a blood curdling reality
that blunts darning needles yet pierces last vestiges
of all intrinsic value now bereft of moral fibre while
attacking those weak who inherit little or nothing.
I ponder my existence in a world where great yarn
straddles broken structures with false truths, lies
ingrained in our culture where idyllic is unattainable
and whole is a dream as imperfection is omnipotent
yet patched over in shades of glaucous grey covering
voids of honesty, decency with seams double stitched
trying hard to camouflage reality with fatuous flaws
where only end result matters above a slipped stitch.
But at the very end, my attempts at needlecraft fall
under-researched in environs of this wanton epoch
where technique is overridden by image and surface
in months of depravity when expediency was devoid.