A pile of edges heaped in the center of the cold hard floor
Staring into the eyes of the thinker
The curves meet the straights
And the straights quickly freeze into corners.
Together the peck paints a picture enshrouded
With the faces and the backs of maybes and what-nots
But each knot carefully untied reveals the beauty of the string
And with careful thought; pure patient plotting
The painting dries-the puzzle complete
Whole is born with the death of pieces.