April 19 : Patchwork

Perhaps,
when I get up
(woozy from the headrush
and the strange fatigue of
being awake)
the world is different.
Puffy eyes and guileless smile
watch the sunlight prance about
(my hair my legs my dirty foot)
and the world seems as whole
as the sky is wide.

An exquisite creation
of a single polished piece of wood.
Flawless in the way
only sleepy eyes can see.

And perhaps, as the day goes on
building up on all the emotions and striations
and dissapointments and fluctuations and frustrations
that days are fundamentally made up of
the world changes somewhat.
As memories slide into your mind
refusing to be evanescent, ever
realizations and regrets never far behind
perhaps, as you plodder on respectably through today
finally reaching the time when
reasonably, you can call it a day
and fall headfirst into blankets that don't judge
by the time the stars are out and the moon is high
the world is quite different.

Through the crack of open window
you can see the deep blue sky
laced intimately with twinkling stars
and it isn't whole anymore
it's a virtual spiderweb of faults and cracks
a patchwork of fallen stars and dreams
woven together by a schizophrenic lifetime
and the world is strange
and half asleep, you're more awake
than ever you were.
Nothing is whole
(but nothing incomplete)
every misfit fits into the jigsaw
in a profound sort of way.
And craning your neck
you can almost see
the fluttering edges
of your patchworked life
closing in on you.
Gently.