He appears before me;

Cloaked in aubergine.

Meters of spun cloth;

Cut, creased, and tapered;

To say forked things.


A diatribe in soliloquy;

Sounds all the more convincing.


I once stood as he;

Bespoke, bold, beautiful,

Undeterred by truth,

And followed him confidently;

To salvation, to perdition;

Happier either way;

Than where I stand.


Stripped, shrinking, ugly,

Marred by knowing;

That the tailor’s marks are temporary;

That the cloth will be unfit;

That I could never afford,

But borrowed things.

That I am ill-suited;

For his desires;

For his promises.


For his words;

They offer all,

And nothing.


(c) J. Manuel


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