© 1983, Roy Stucky
Disembodied like a voice across a phone,
The writer spins out words he'll never own.
A sound sans I or me -
Such dubious identity.
I try to fit in but it's always a jam.
The colors in motion obscure who I am.
The winds of change blow every page from my hand.
My portrait might well as be painted with sand.
I try to be seen but it's seldom I can.
Enigma is fused with this mosaic man.
No slogan to shout.
Single factor equations
That don't balance out.
How can a mosaic man
Command away doubt?
I'm a strange formation
The sunlight plays upon.
So many combinations
Depend upon the pawn.
Deepest admixture of life and death -
The need of vacuum to draw each breath.
Instead of drawn as one smooth pane
Fragments grate like broken chains.
Patterns catch me off my guard
As thought breaks down to jagged shards.
Can man's mosaic of shifting frames
Coalesce a single name?