Like an old white shirt now frayed and anaemic,
From too much wear,
My parents have lost their starch.
Limp and pilled, strained seams and loose buttons,
Too much stress and tugging children,
Have caused their inner pockets,
To stand out and show how time,
Has leeched their life,
Depositing lint in its place.
Eventually they'll be shoved in a cupboard as rags,
And the offspring that pulled them apart,
Will only come when an old rag is needed,
Heedless of the shirt, it used to be.
I wrote this about my parents, but now its about me! And I think I'm ready to cut up Dad's old shirt, and make sure the memory of him remains a part of the fabric of mine and mum's life. "For fabric thou art, unto fabric shall thou return."