Only up to a point. Eventually it’s just too late.
I decided to look at some posts this morning and find one fairly randomly and respond. The winner (a fairly dubious honour, to be sure) was Cheryl who drew attention to the various choices of clothing that one may be confronted with on any particular day – though her chosen models all seemed to be preparing for the beach. I think her premise is that there comes a time when comfort is the only real consideration.
But one cannot help but reminisce about days when it wasn’t so.
This sack of skin. This walking curse
That clothing makes look somehow worse
It limps around. It shuns the light
It keeps the truth withheld from sight
It breaks the mirror, looks away
Within your view it cannot stay
Within your reach it shall not be
You cannot feel what you can’t see
For what is clothing, but a mask?
That hides the question you won’t ask
And makes of which you cannot see
A poorly hidden mystery
A camouflage from foot to neck
To decorate this hulking wreck
I wear a cloak till daylight fades
I hide inside. I pull the shades
My aching back. My shaking knees
My life. This inescapable disease
My body. Shoddy. Wasted breath
Stranded between birth and death
A place where lovers used to dance
No longer worth a second glance
No more tempting to your taste
Where once you lay, now laid to waste
The moles, the holes, the battle scars
From nights it stayed and played in bars
To laugh and love. To lie. Pretend
That the day would never end
So now this sack, these shaking knees
Are carrying the memories
But there tis no mask, no cape, no clothes
With which I’d ever cover those.