I would cut clothes from the fine cloth that takes it's texture from the summer sky.

 

Days drew patterns for clean cotton blouses. 

Nights drafted beautiful dark dresses.

 

My favorite skirts, courteously shaded by the falling summer sun setting the kingdom of clouds alight.

 

When younger, I would make my hands into shears, look up, squint for precision (knowing I had to get the proportions just right), and snip the garments I would slip into in my day dreams.

 

I was the emperor.

And was not the wardrobe that I took time to tailor wondrous?

 

With pride did I gaze upon myself and my closet of make-believe.

 

"Believe you are alive, and in so doing, allow yourself to live!"

That was the mantra I crooned in my cumulus kingdom.

 

 

This,

this is all I need.

 

Marooned on an island, all I require is myself in my entirety;

That childish understanding of a limitless sky turned limitless possibilities, if willing to reach for it and wander in one's own mind.

 

 

My open hands turn to scissors,

My open mind works the heavens into new patterns,

And the open sky offers up endless spools of textile.

 

What will cover my bare back and act as my sustenence when exposed to the elements is my conviction in obtaining the truest level of person-hood.

 

The idea that the sky is mine to mold so long as I fasten it with the fingers of an eager child desperate to make the world their own.

 

This is why I call myself kin to the foolish emperor.

 yet nonetheless I feel completely covered by this contrary idea.

 

It is me,

and as long as I have myself,

as long as I can eat of my heart ,

find nourishment in my thoughts that later manifest as actions,

 

then the breeze I feel is nothing.

 

Because with this train of thinking,

I am everything.

 

Tearing down the curtains of the sky I craft my destiny, my attire,

and so isolation only offers me inspiration.