My words,
are stitched into.
Each other,
to make images.
However, you.
Do not understand,
and like, words.
So, my depictions are mislaid.
All the needlework and toil.
From my fingertips.
Lay, mottled and wasting.
Alas, I continue,
to weave thick scarves.
For the people,
living under the sun.
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