The Seamstress

Poetry seeps through the back of my eyes
Projecting my thoughts forward.
In turn the image
Coats my throat with words
To speak instruction of what is and isn’t
In a textile shop
Bent over a desk carved
With the frustration of realism.
Stand still!
I cry with needles between my lips
As I try to pin a lose net of conscience
To an elusive Poesy.
Clothed with modest words,
She holds my hand
And is safe from strangers on the street
Who will not recognize her
As mine.