Mosaic

Some things are not supposed to make sense. One can unhinge the mind making the attempt. Life's pieces make a mosaic that is starkly dense. Scrambled, disjointed, blurred, and unkempt. We ache to make even a particle of sense of it, And in rare moments we think we find a form. But coming closer, we see it's stricken with a split As if overtaken by a violent, unforeseen storm. Undaunted, we fight to find a logical scheme— Something/anything that tells us what's ahead. But the pieces twist and turn as in a dream, And the not-knowing dresses us with dread. Too late, withered and worn, we come to know Some things are not supposed to make sense. We realize that the mosaic was made to show Mortal life is but an adventure in suspense.