Love, a cloak, touches, clutches the weary,
changing to laughter, tears of those dreary.
It thrives, nourished, in second-hand garments
awash with somebody else’s tears, fears.
Hued, blue shades, tears never fade, they're inside,
deeply woven in second-hand garments
layered, in folds, by the fabric of time.

Somebody wants to seize my treasured things,
give them away or pull out the threads, strings.
Can’t they understand imbedded mem’ries
make me the woman whom I want to be?
Clothes are but cover-ups, material,
that exposes greed or humanity.
I am more ‘me’ as a second-hand rose.

Feeling laughter, tears, sorrows . . . emotion . . .
to memories, I pledge my devotion.
Cloistered, inhaling another’s perfume,
reels of life snake and slither down my spine.
New clothes hang empty . . . without history . . .
lack the insight I need: being cherished.
Well worn, cared-for garments have first-rate hearts.

Their love captures me . . . a second-hand rose . . .
plucks my thorns, shares sweet nectar. No one knows
the guidance, education, that’s derived
from garments that live, thrive, beneath our skin.
Mirrored emotions surround, drape my soul,
making me whole, tears mending my heartaches . . .
with ancient clothes on a second-hand rose.


review #1: I don't see you as second hand anything, Sandy. This writing was well defined, and expressed. However as I said I think you're a first hand
winner.

lyf
tony:)