mosaic

Sometimes i cant tell the difference

Between ambivalence and inspiration

I cant tell if a muse is fabricated in me by the desperate hand of my soul

Or if it presents itself to me

Fleeting

In rudimentary form

For my cultivation

And i miss it

Because i fear fabrication

What do I clutch at with thieving fingers?

What of this inexhaustable resource

is worth stealing? 

Do I tessellate the pieces together

those fickle fragments 

with those vivid and visceral diapasons

like piece-meal 

like kids craft cut outs

an array of adhesives

for my mosaic

but what do I do with the spaces?