Many Pieces

Many pieces make up a story
What happened is the easy part
Seeing how they fit together is difficult
In the attempt to find truth one may wander
And end up searching for fragments
In the light of the moment, when we may have dropped them
Long and far away upon an emotion darkened plain
And we may ask is it worth the journey to seek a clue
To an answer that may be found, but implementation
Obliterates all traces of the question.
Any story is but a collection of parts that are found
What do we find here, in this silence, between the pages of a book?
Or the sheets of our soul?

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