The peaceful thrill’s always the same
Each time I play the matching game.
The silent mind softens, sharpens,
Willfully working apart ends
Of words and ends of rhymes,
Syllables and moras; I’m
Zealous in exploring patterns,
Jealous of imported patter.
Mell less the truth, hoarded, that yearns
To tell us close stories that burn.
The matching game is where I hide,
Where sentiment can be denied.
For when the world just befuddles,
I calm myself within these puzzles.
The weary work to unearth wit
And depth and purpose for all of it
Fades fast when focusing intent-
Ly on what is said, not what is meant.
In my eyes, despite their claim,
It’s nothing but a matching game.
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