A picture's knocked from it's hook
on the wall.
Shattered and broken it lies on the
floor.
So sweep the pieces up,
shards of glass embedded in bare
palms,
bigger pieces dumped back into the
frame they came from.
What do we have now?
Broken pieces fill a frame,
jutting out,
falling out,
out of shape.
Bloody hands smear crimson along
the edges of the pieces as they
struggle to align.
Where do they go?
They don't fit anymore.
Shave them down,
grind them together,
make the pieces fit again.
But what about the gaps?
Fill them with glue,
glue and paper,
paper and tape,
cover them with tape.
But now the picture no longer
makes sense!
Paint over it with thick crimson;
the only color in your kit.
Draw outside the lines,
and scribble over the cracks,
blur the borders.
What are we left with?
A collage of color,
a mishmash of broken pieces,
crammed in crevices
where they didn't belong.
But then,
who am I to decide what
does and doesn't belong?
I stick out from my surroundings,
I've filled my empty spaces,
the once dark holes
saturated with startling red.
Does that make sense?
What makes sense?
Did it ever make sense?
Do I ever make sense?
Does anything make sense?
It comes in waves of red;
is it the tide?
The blood on my hands?
Glaring at the picture I put together,
I swipe it off the wall once again
before stooping to my knees
to sweep up the pieces.
YOU ARE READING
Silent Mouths, Rambling Minds
Poetry"Those who speak the least have the most interesting things to say,"
