Tailor
The man who mends armour has none for himself,
His sword is his tape measure and proximity
Into the den of wolves he delves,
Yet for all his moral fluidity
And the conscience upon the shelves,
He finds some incongruity
He helps those who need no help themselves,
Nagging as a tapeworm,
As the formation of an endoderm,
A concept or idea,
A notebook laced with fear,
Measurements are taken
Of his own hand,
And the invisible hand,
He does not own the numbers he inscribes.
He does not own the pills that his doctor prescribes,
He does not own the tremor
That will put him out to pasture,
For utopia he could endeavour
As the future progresses faster
Oh his irrelevance never
ceases to cast a
Shadow on his mind,
But he can never seem to find
A deeper meaning,
In the death he finds
In his client’s eyes
Their vacuous confusion
To a tool that speaks,
Suffering under delusion,
He questions if he breathes,
He wonders if he’s resting,
Underground and under wreaths,
If there were a time for denial
It’d be in purgatory,
To explain the loathsome bile,
His television speaks,
The devils in their suits and ties,
And the monsters in the streets,
Their tongues serrating all that pass,
And feasting on the weak,
Oh to explain the void in the eyes,
Of those with conscience on their sleeves,
Pride is in the label he provides,
Gluttony in the price,
The smiles of the client,
With dollar bills in their eyes,
And a pocket full of lies,
Of course he can keep the tip,
Marked with Churchill’s genocide,
Or if he’s lucky, Adam Smith,
And the violence he supplied,
Though he’s a hero in his own right,
How many have died,
For the conquest of money,
And the blood that marks the eye,
Oil, money, power,
Domination, segregation, now a
Mention to all the orders,
And all the wars supported,
All the propositions put forward,
That hurt those born without right,
Or urge for conquest or for might,
Given a goal from a mile away,
To support their opportunity or throw it away,
For every hope of something better,
For those that hurt and those that bore it,
For those damaged but who endorsed it,
For those with apathetic smiles,
And those who’s words drip with denial,
Oh the inequality he sees,
The rigged meritocracy it breeds,
The cloaks he makes sow the seeds,
Of tyranny and usury,
Of apathy and greed,
For all the suits the tailor makes,
He is where he should be,
If the world is unjustifiable,
And pain undeniable,
Is this not hell he sees?
Is this not the hell he makes and feeds?
Snipping off another hem,
He finds it is cut short again,
He takes the change and gives a grin,
Filled with overwhelming belonging.
