You are a reverse puzzle for modern times,
residing on the shelf of distractions,
waiting for someone to put together
the heart of your being. I have my mind
set on wanting to assemble you;
with my nose buried in a book of poetry,
I will learn ways of rhymes and metaphors;
I will make you an abstract of genius yet,
even if it would take me an eon of years.
I can only hope that I read your pieces right
for each time the scorched sun hits,
there appear different messages.
I wonder if you feel timeless, or perhaps
helpless while waiting for the moment
you become whole, and from then on,
no one can ever tear you apart,
or attempt to reconstruct you, like
constellations that embedded themselves
firmly into the sky's fabric,
too stubborn to let anyone
change their appearances, like you.
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