The Missing Piece

You can't force the last jigsaw piece of your perfect world into mine
Unless you want to distort the puzzle and tear its fragile image.
Leave the missing piece incomplete, a jagged reminder of distressed times.

My inferior humanity serves as a playground for your insults and tattle tales
As you swing and slide and make merry on the go around of each spin.
Then, you laugh aloud when the flesh from my knee drips ruddy upon the ground.

Your best offense is to defense my every motion of hopeful recovery.
My vast, unpardonable past resides on the soured apex of your tortuous tongue
Where it easily intrudes into every crevice of present fortune.

Playing foolish or being the buffoon requires the same witless mind.
Walking onto the stages of incongruity and conflict, I fall victim to all ruses,
Thus, evoking howls of delight from those ravenous for such foible diversion.

Yet, without the flaw of that left incomplete, perceived completion would be impossible:
The better never bested; the unattainable never attained; the unimaginable never imagined.
In truth, the paradox of perfection is that the only perfect state is imperfection.

Leave the puzzle of my life unfinished and in plain sight for others to behold at will.
The blemished product adds fairness to the industry of its making and its presentation.
The missing piece, lost in process, can never be duplicated and added by the less sincere.