Jigsaws Are We Poem by Mark Heathcote

Always while being discarded.
We are miscellaneous maladies of madness-
Sporadically ripped apart
Piecing together unspoken words and feelings of sadness.

While our eyes and fingers grope
on the assembly-line
jigsaws are we, waiting in hope
to be mended, fixed redefined.

If we're walking around, blindfold.
Who will near complete me, us?
I'm sure it's something asked by all of us
I'm sure it's something of a black hole.

Gingerly if I come to you. And ask
don't-leave-me surreptitiously alone
please don't devalue me
don't-leave-me periodically empty as a cyclone.

Because I've got a heart, I've got
a generously loving soul tonight.
You might answer me, me back, well darling-alright?