The Pretentious Ones

Dry and crackled, I wade through words like chaff.
How can the mind’s eye truly imagine
memories of the fallen,
or empathize with words
the artistry of forgotten thoughts?

Searching endlessly for the point
I clutch vainly for the parts of the jigsaw –
self-congratulate my analysis,
the image sits comfortably on my retina
the puzzle fits, the parts are complete.

But what was that? A nuance, an image?
I beat the pieces back in, but it’s the old dilemma –
the parts of the story were blurred from the start
is this my jigsaw or His?

Once I could see the purity of words,
shameless without the alacrity of sense;
I yet cling to the Eden of rhythm
lulling me to sleep like a child –
mirror to reality, or harmony of deceit?