The Matching Game

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.