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Poem

Serging through life, I whipstitch, weft, and welt,
But always, my thoughts are pick-threading.

As stippled patches of emotion rise and fall in me,
See me, feel me, touch me, heal me
Just too many scars.

The mindless mind stresses itself through mental snares,
I waste away beneath it all, piecing and pondering.
Where the struggling soul and pleating body meet,
I seek significance in life’s lucid-lined layers.

Confronting my inner fears as an owneress,
Time leaves its cursed mark in starched stitches that cut.

Each moment experienced is like a closing zipper,
My calm exterior ridges are often rough, ready, and ruffled.
A life full of scars.

While unique experiences blend like transient ombre shades
My essence feels like a needled complex knit.
Memories form patterns from life’s four-patches
Challenges scissors cut are like shredded sharp diamonds.

Yet more paths diverge along life’s shifting chevrons
I strive to fit somehow; this square is what I do.

Yet my world stands out like tri-recs blocks
Creating stars and pineapples to fight fifty-four forty.
Scars that are hidden and visible, surface and deep.

Like trapezoids, I sense those oblong obstacles loom
Worth or less by my own limited gauge, I measure.
I pray each day new chapters begin casting on
While others exhaust, reaching their bind-offs.

I do seek a pattern master, and I need to pray for one.
I contemplate constantly along selvages of thoughts.

They hang like dangling tails…
I start to visualize my purpose slowly seaming.
Look as I whipstitch, weft, and welt through life, serging.

As I graciously and sagaciously test life’s many swatches,
I devote my life to the Master Seamster the…
Healer of scars.

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