There are piles of garments in the room all, Tattered and jagged bits of clothes youthfully clingy loose fitting trousers in the meadow. The era of time rush through the tasteless clothing. No one wants to stop the clothing job for the employees. To earn their wages with huge amounts of perspiration firmly clinging to my body the garments saw each breaking dawn. An aunt of mine uses her digits that work is quick and light. It became an urgent request of work done one at a time. An aunt of mine was paid for each garment upon completing each piece. Auntie produce massive works of clothing using a dull light to see the Stitching she made into the cloth. An accident in the making of comfortable clothes the bushes of cotton harvested each day by starved employees pulverized into a garment and taken to distant land of manufactures Taken apart and strung into different choices and selections for the customers to purchase. Darken clothing with severed digits a washed into deep enriched Pieces of fabric woven together, made into a creation of pocket. The lumps that surround my chest while I peer into the closet Full garments those aren't interesting enough to wear. Without anything but fine dull woven fabric coming apart spreading all over the ground Hard workers watching and seeing what was created by long hours of labour In a negative state of mind with thoughts of guilty lack of knowledge The rippling waves of change are blowing the wind.
Nic Johnson