they've travelled well these cushions,
better than me -
grubby and bashed on the outside,
sound on the inside,
quite capable of fulfilling their function

  		on me
  		the scars you can't see
  		except by those close 
  		who recognise 
  		the fleck-hue-change of the eye

plumped-up with satisfaction
carrying those who sit, stay, 
talk - there to be used after all
are we not -

  		on a cover of white lace
  		wrapped like a package, a princess
  		on her cushions, swathed in white -

will I cover these faded stripes in pale pastel hues?
hide the stains with a new colour?
cut the fringes and leave all bare?
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