This defeat that I wear, tailor made for tears,
woven fabric of displacement, fringed in fear.
Nestled in the pattern, of pain and of time,
distrust adds that bit of gleam, that draws the eye.
Anger sets the hem, keeps my mind from fraying.
Each stitch, a day gone, never re-existing.
Tightly bound around me, as to be a second skin,
tied with knots of frustration.  No one is getting in.