Patchwork is for making quilts
Or for plugging holes in inner tubes.
Pieces are for picking up when
Shattered lives break all apart.
One carries on,
Finds the glue,
Works the mending, healing plight of
Grieving sailors lost at sea, of
Helpless, hopeless, hurting hearts.
Wise men make a vain attempt to
Put the puzzle back together,
Tiny flakes so miniscule that
They escape the naked eye.
Running out of patience as the
Shadows stretch to lengths unknown,
Making nervous witness of
Unintended passers-by.
All the pieces.
So little time.
Much too soon to
Say goodbye.
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