My Table

I placed the table of my life,
before the noon day sun,
collecting the shards
of ceramic cerebral crafts,
adhering them to the top,
meticulously placing the hues
from my medley of mishaps
so the décor would have
the illusion of reason.

It hid the scars
incurred when the china
used to sup on leftovers
scratched to deep into the surface.

Each day I dusted and cleaned
this montage,
which I thought was cleverly prepared
so eyes would admire
my turning wounds into beauty.

But the glue didn’t hold
and I constantly had to redo the image,
growing weary from the steady chore.

Wasn’t till I used it
for holding coffee cups
when serving lunch to friends
that I discovered the façade assortment
never fooled anyone.

Learning sometimes
tiles I thought I could use
to protect the truth
only make for an unimpressive array.