Out of Synch

Locked into identity:

sacred
secret
softly

Who knew such a little thing

could be so integral,

and its absence

color things sour,

tint everything gray,

and tip the world

asunder?

(disjointed)

(seams showing)

nothing fits together

Thinking avails us nothing,

for there are no answers here,

only a strange unmapped world

and a self

no longer synchronized:
out of synch
out of kilter
out of mind

If I can't understand

the little blasted bits

around me,

I have no chance

of putting it back together

(All the king's horses and all the king's men.)

and my only hope

is time's tincture:

slow

drip

painful

drop

trickling into the abyss

of a cubist artwork life

and unmemory.

This was written for The Sunday Whirl.