Pieces Of Eight

Many have been 

sleepless nights
when the wind was howling
around the corners

of my thoughts
confusion bewitched 

for hours
Jigsaw pieces 

placed in eights
one by one 

they find their place
hollow but for the border
Sweet dreams crook a token finger
empty yet alluring
beckoned until the palm turns
octagon defining 
A gust of wind
the curtains bend
falling slowly into them

Jigsaw pieces on the floor
broken pieces of eight
sweep them up into the night
put them together in the morning.