Fabrication

When you drop me like a pin
Know that I am a needle
Lost, peradventure, never found
Patiently waiting
At the sidewalks
For only a tailor eye.

I have tried to mend
To sew differences
To knot faiths
Bringing rhythm into your boring sequence

I am a needle
Sharp with memories of us
Always at a personal worship of your tender skin
Hurting and loving-giving pleasure

I have tried not to mute
I have cried, I have walked with my bare foot
All seams seems at a dying stage
When the doctors, sew the heart with advice.



I am no bait
For your anger
No balm for your indecisiveness
There are no crevices to hide
For I am no one’s fiddle
I am that small needle
That leaves you with a riddle

You are my wool-my fabric
On which without,
There is no existence-
That, I crave intact.

But we are fastly worn
So tenderly torn threadbare with silence
For when I try to mend
You render signs of farewell

I am a needle
Lost in transit
On the rug of temptation and confusion
In your purse of disrespect
In your weave-on, staying.
All I need is the strength of fabric without fabrication
All I need is your spirited love without silence
Or
There is a wide pool of designer clothes from China
There are a heap of China-made garbs in Yaba
And a thronging of mini-skirts in Victoria Island boutiques.