1.
Dry and crackled, I wade through words like chaff.
How can the mind’s eye truly imagine
memories of the fallen,
or empathize with words
the artistry of forgotten thoughts?

2.
Searching endlessly for the point
I clutch vainly for the parts of the jigsaw –
self-congratulate my analysis,
the image sits comfortably on my retina
the puzzle fits, the parts are complete.

3.
But what was that? A nuance, an image?
I beat the pieces back in, but it’s the old dilemma –
the parts of the story were blurred from the start
is this my jigsaw or His?

4.
Once I could see the purity of words,
shameless without the alacrity of sense;
I yet cling to the Eden of rhythm
lulling me to sleep like a child –
mirror to reality, or harmony of deceit?