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My patchwork, blanketed tapestry,
of maudlin melancholy, is;
uncomfortably trapped;
tightly, tucked in, and, staring,
at the inside, of my outside,
or, is it, the outside of my inside?

Pricking the panes, of my soul-destroying,
eyelids.

While praying,
for the luminescent,
Phoenixed beacon,
of level-headed, neutrality,
to become incandescent,
burning brightly,
in the present,
switched on.

Memories make my maudlin melancholy,
weave evocation, with nostalgic fabrics,
spinning universal yarns, of Seanchaí stature; all past;
pastimes, pasta dishes, pastures new discovered, pastures not so green on the otherside experienced, pastiched poems, pastilled aromas, pastille sweets, pastels of watercoloured lives.

All, varying in emotion, strength, sentiment, shape and sizes.

Each and every thread,
intertwined and sewn,
into my self, spirit and soul.
Elucidating knotted,
uncompromising needle,
and thread, bunched,
fibers untangled,
and impressively unfurled,
then eternally, stretched,
and stitched on…

and, on…

and, on…

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