mayawrites

A plethora of cloth cascades like caramel over hangers,

Clutching on plastic for injustice’s rate,

Tags pulling at its weave to disintegrate,

As they gut their insides, stay or succumb to fate?

Hundreds finger the thread, toying with its making,

The wrinkles ease as they are passed on further in the rack,

Their worth defined by the number penned in a machine breaking,

Their polished fake gems grinning in artificial wack,

Alterung, measuring, stiching

Done lazily with a steaming cup of chai,

Changing for the superior, always right, negotiating,

To conveniece them, before they are thrown away in a bye.

They shed fabric, embellishments, and tears,

Joined with accessories, playfully tinkered with metal spears,

And if after all the attachment and pain for the body it ‘beworns’,

It is handed over with the white card it began with, and uneasily snores.

It is home, where it belongs, feeling comfortable in its own sides,

But there in her place, a fresh closet resides.