Everyone sees
the edges but me.
I cast around
stumble, collide,
reaching for hands
and imaginary love
I fall again
looking up I see
perfect attention.
With hope’s fierce appetite
and love’s intention
I reach out to grasp
the puzzle piece
to end my plight.
Always searching,
longing to fill
this emptiness, fly free.
The outline hidden
or was, until I risked
to glance
deep down in me.
And there it was, this
secret born and bound
to silence by a tearing grief.
The shape was me,
I was the form
from nowhere else,
could I find relief.
Written by Francis de Aguilar©2014
Pic Claire Palmer