The Incomplete Poem

red fragments of plastic litter the sandy soil at my feet i gather them with one at a time while my soul searches for a song to impart my pen grows strange in my hand its words have a feel to them foreign deranged the phrases float disjointedly they refuse to knit into a poem while my mind is troubled by a scattering of autumn winds the red fragments arranged randomly on the small backyard table sunshine illuminates each with precise clarity the fragments are my poem and i shuffle the pieces back and forth trying with a maddened mind to knit them into a beautiful bird but they only keep forming the ugly face distorted they keep moving of their own accord to form a jagged edge i breath and suck at my coffee mug the red fragments thorny in my head they have sand clinging to them and bits of the brackish water that the nights rain had left for me these words are incomplete visions mere phrases like incongruous men walking random paths in a field when two meet they shout their ideas at eachother and part company full of suspicious glares a draft of this randomly worded madness flows from my unwilling pen the red fragmentation of the incomplete poem