It’s an inside job.

It’s an inside job.

Everyone sees
the edges but me.
I cast around
stumble, collide,
reaching for hands
and imaginary love
I fall again

looking up I see
perfect attention.
With hope’s fierce appetite
and love’s intention
I reach out to grasp
the puzzle piece
to end my plight.

Always searching,
longing to fill
this emptiness, fly free.
The outline hidden
or was, until I risked
to glance
deep down in me.

And there it was, this
secret born and bound
to silence by a tearing grief.
The shape was me,
I was the form
from nowhere else,
could I find relief.

Written by Francis de Aguilar©2014

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