Nothing keeps me awake like
A puzzle I cannot solve, a jigsaw
With all the middle pieces missing.
After years of searching, I still
Find only edges, and so I am left
With a frame without a picture.

My overactive imagination
Suggests all manner of things
That it believes could have filled
The hole in my past, but they
Are the worst sort of fiction,
And at heart I am
The worst sort of writer.

Eventually I move towards my bed
And the sleep I have long denied
Myself, but the direction in which
I should really be going is towards
A real future, with my back
Turned to the phony past.

08/28/2024

Posted on 01/31/2025
Copyright © 2025 Richard Vince