An angle of life
A tatter ripped from the shirt of reality
Torn off its back in a violent and rapid passing
Kept safe in a deep pocket
The shirt looked deep sapphire
But you sift through your pocket and look again
And not a trace of blue to be seen
Bathed in a silver veneer it sparkles
Soon you realize that the color’s misleading
The eye has fell for the slight
And only later realizes its mistake
So you grab all the scraps possible
Fearing that you might have missed one
Your pockets become full
And you are wearied
So you fall to the floor
Not noticing your spill of fabric
And feel cold
You’ve been blinded by the cold and color
But you start to stitch
Haphazardly picking each rag off the floor
Making your own shirt;
But you don’t know that
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