Sunday, September 11, 2016

The Poet: Markus Zusak, "Pieces”


"Sometimes there only seem to be clouds.
Tonight, the clouds hang above me, sulking in the sky. 
They watch me write the words.
 I don't even think they bother to read.
I imagine myself in a room, 
where some shattered pieces are strewn on the floor, in front of me.
As I walk towards them, I have no idea what they are, 
so I approach with trepidation. 
They seem to be a puzzle, all torn up and thrown apart. 
They look injured.
I crouch down and begin putting them together, 
finding each scrap that surrounds my feet.
Gradually, I see the picture form as I put it all together.
Gradually, I see.
These pieces on the ground.
Are made of me."

- Markus Zusak 

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