Bits and pieces jumble.

Perfect and whole in the mind.

Falling haphazard on the page.

 

Missing pieces, nibbled edges, colors slobbered off.

 

Process is the gauntlet.

Jumble perfectly formed ideas.

Tossed through the clumsy translation of fingers,

Stitching together til their nearest approximations.

 

Some pieces from another box.

They’re supposed to fit, but don’t.

But those that clearly don’t go together,

won’t let go.

 

Nearly there,

Or thread is lost.

Pride,

despair.

Lost and maybe found.

 

And a derpy puzzle metaphor

Amalgamation – abomination? – with sewing

Cause that’s just what happened and really,

the reasoning isn’t there

but why take the effort

to change it?

 

(change what it might become,

in the next pass.)