My thoughts are scattered pieces
broken into curves and dots,
and spikes too — touchy irritants.
They wander in the marble of blue.
Sometimes they are pebbles
dangling in the dark depth of gloom —
craggy things that spite ethos.
And when they have heaped up,
they are holocaust gobbling the few virtues left.
The ones that say “do it” when no one is there.
Sometimes they are puzzles —
pieces of the jigsaw,
twisted fittings of unfits
that weave my webs, and
leave me trapped in-between. Yeses and noes.
The ones that say “look” or silently watch me leap