seams of sorrow, photo essay by me x joekenneth museau

In what seems to be the immaculate craftsmanship of a Savile Row soul 
who sowed these seams with surgical dexterity, lies a man.

Flesh and blood.

Flawed and fresh from

post-pub drunken therapy

Thread unraveling at the hem of his sanity.

This suit is simply his cloth of choice.

Therefore, please tailor your assumptions regarding his presumed stature or wealth.

Is America still dreaming?

Have the people failed to realize that a gated community or walled streets cannot prevent one's life from crumbling.

Executive chair, court side, front row seat in the middle of debris.

Breathe...

You can only lose it all if all that you have is what you can see

His sorrow is like fire tucked behind the shield of his vest. And although he has the skin of three Hebrews unsinged, his tie askew and unbuckled pair of shoes reveals all truth.

He is a man.

Beautiful.

Ordinary.

Adam fully clothed after exiting Eden.

Lost.

Under a sky that points neither east nor west.

The foundation has clearly been shaken but even a pinhead of resilience will help him to rebuild. Or maybe assist him in finding the fabric needed to replace a future presently frayed.


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