We are all woven, and semi stitched in the hope that we can work on our own threadbare premises. Grappling at needles with stubborn fingers, and redesigning our minds. I hung my suit up in full view, Livid grey and mouldering in structure. I have worn this attire for far too long. My super hero costume that never took to the air, or survived the battle of flinching. The aching off white shirt, all stretched out and flagging at the stomach. Trousers’ walked to the bone, and tie loosened and slack redeeming colour. Tarnished shoes kicked out and weathered.
My uniform of life should not be of matter, yet still it causes concern. I was not wearing my customised career and fat wallet hat.
What not to wear? A robe of honesty, as it almost leaves you naked.
I swept myself up into a mild manner and flew into a rage. With pennies in my pocket, I am examining the choices of new skin. With very few on offer for my shrapnel this may be a frequent journey.
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