My Pieces through the keyhole.

Peeking through the keyhole of life today seems quite dire - it aligns with peeking through the inward parts of my Self.

Everything is mis-aligning - chaos reigns (inwards and outwards)

I peer through the keyhole body and see the scattered pieces of myself

My Heart is the Queen - She is a Dictator, but sometimes she becomes so weary

My Brain tries to be the voice of Reason - but the other pieces of me will not co-operate

My Eyes see only what they desire - for seeing every other parts of the pieces of me - inwards...and the world - outwards...may render them blind

The sum of all of my other parts - wish fervently that they could all align for the good of the whole

So too the world

My Ears hear, but try to drown out the infernal insistence of the world to try its darndest best to implode into itself -the entire world gone mad- peace forgotten - war uppermost in every dictator's mind

My Mouth tries its utmost to not spit venom upon all who dare to question my decisions - though they may be counter-intuitive and counter-productive to my sanity

My extremities - arms, legs, hands, feet - work in tandem...yet these limbs seem to hear a different beating of the drum of my other parts and pieces

Human frailties then beset each of my organs -

Democracy in this system of governance is non-existing

Autocracy rules the building block...every piece of my pieces wants to become independent - work on its own

The heart is the first to begin to feel the intense stress and strain of it all

The parts begin to fail, one by one

Leading to a body-political shutdown

IT IS THE WORLD WITHIN WHERE ALL OF MY PIECES EXIST - THEY REFUSE TO WORK IN TANDEM - They DO NOT BELIEVE IN UNITY FOR THE GOOD OF THE WHOLE.

Slowly, like the world around the body whole -

Anarchy is rising. The view through the keyhole of the world and my pieces are at war. My body feels the distress of the world - it is taking a toll.

It is time for my pieces and the world's pieces to become whole again.

I am the tree containing the broken pieces, scattered - a self in need of freeing - more and more becoming lost.

“The Scattered Selves”

I am a tree,

but not one you’d find in a forest.

My bark is composed of skin ,

my leaves are dialects I’ve never spoken.

I stand in a clearing,

where the wind carries the echoes of me

like errant seeds -

each one a vestige of longing,

a laugh I once had,

a shadow I refused to claim.

Beneath my roots,

my pieces lie buried.

They reflect not my face,

but the faces I’ve worn

in dreams, in stories,

in the eyes of those who mistook me

for whole.

Birds nest in my branches -

they come to me for shelter,

to sing songs .

They peck at my limbs,

yet they never wound,

they peck only to remind me

that even broken wood

can cradle life.

One day,

the winds of the world will wander into my clearing.

carrying a satchel of all of its puzzle pieces -

each a symbol of the many troubles needing to be fixed

a well, a flame, a spiral, a cracked mask. It is up to me to pick a single piece and improve upon it...but how

I am as broken into pieces as the world around me.

The wind did not ask who I was...neither did it answer

She simply pressed the pieces

into my trunk,

and I felt them tremble

there was no pain,

only recognition of the reawakening to come.

I am a tree,

and I am scattered.

But I am also soil,

and story,

and sanctuary.

Completion is not a single shape.

It is the dance of fragments

learning to sing together.

The place where the keyhole pieces

must find a way to mend themselves.