My Missing Piece

My Missing Piece

I felt stable and true like a clear lake.

My pieces visible floating serenely.

Now I feel pulled by forces outside, tides.

To and fro my pieces are tumbled. 

There is no ignition point for these whirlpools.

Pieces together smashed.

They invade and turn clarity to a milky river, turbulent.

Pieces are lost.

Was this always here? This dirt and muck dragged and dredged up by the new currents. I am a freshwater lake suddenly connected to the ocean. One with the wider world. Yet those pieces that I need are floating across the world pulled by the massive force of the moon and winds and the cries. I must get used to the new rhythm of blood, white, blue, sticky hands and death.