The Tailor

Where is my fault in all these diversions — lines of Pindaric love, when

by my account, my right hand knew not what my left was entertaining —

the Devil at Archangel —

As amusement pulled up your smile with the fingers of fates laughing tutelage, prodigies

in mimicry — inheritors of my aborted youth —

callous fate washed one hand with the other and with both her face, cleansing her guilt matter-of-factly, as

your smile was imprinted more black than in white, stilled in the perpetual nostalgia of professional faith

And I lay in state — broken coffins — a solemn viewing , as fate affords me a last laugh,

— fate never dared to love those beneath her moth eaten garments of delusional grandeur

Alas, the fates have other plans, measuring the threads of life, against the footsteps of my souls stretching shadow,

my hands humbly hold up the bowing dignity of my pride, I wane but do not fall,

I do not fall,

Where is my fault? — It tripped in the rush to compliment you, and preordained your fate

sealing the matter — my hands release my pride and my pride found a lazy tailor who cut the thread to short

I tripped on the scissors — but caught myself in the tangled packthread,

in the seamless rise of blameless shame,

I never liked the colour of shame,

it does not become the stature of my shadow.

Copyright ©. R Tsambounieri Talarantas. June 2, 2020. All Rights Reserved.