I'm stitching a coat together,
with random patches of fabric and leather,
stitches and seams,
from half consumed dreams,
memories of places seen.
Comes down to my knees,
but I don't dress to please,
or adjust my attitude,
despite pressure or lassitude
The cuffs are quite tough,
as they're made from the stuff,
that keeps me from screaming,
believing or deceiving,
attaining no pleasure,
from lies wrought from leisure,
there's treasure and gold,
in most we behold,
buttons sewn on fit fabric eyes,
to blind,
and bind,
the weave aligned.
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