Poetry

He writes poetry with needle and thread, tone-on-tone words that no one will ever read.

Every scrap of fabric and trim speaks of aspirations or heartbreak. He wears his heart on his sleeve, literally and yet no one sees it.

He sets his latest sketch aside and leans forward, burying his hands in a pile of velvet and lace, lycra and fur, selecting a texture to fit the mood of his newest poem.

His harshest judges are the ones who don’t understand his poetry - illiterate souls, blind to the hopes and dreams spelled out in rows of tiny stitches.

 

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