You stitched yourself a world

of patchwork panels

hanging crooked from one another.

A cobbled mess of this and that,

the tension off in the needlework,

thread fraying loose in places.

One stray breath would rip asunder everything.

Yet still,

you held it out.



  1. You held it out, what else can one do? You gotta breathe. Interesting though, a scarecrow is not authentic, put out as a mere approximation of the real deal, and as you beautifully paint, a cobbler patchwork. Maybe the authentic self is actually less vulnerable, even though it’s purpose is to attract rather than repel? Vera nice poem.

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