On Problems

Busy in solving a problem

Focused and in the zone

One doesn’t realise or care

That the problem at the same time

Is trying hard to solve them

Taking them apart, putting back again

Into a different being

Better or worst, who is to say

There’s no win, no glory at the end

Neither for the person or their problem

Just satisfaction of making through

For nothing can be solved, perfectly

Not all things fall, exactly in their slots

Not that it’s impossible

But then there are hundreds of solutions

Acceptable, unacceptable or confusing

And thousands masquerading

Yet looking perfect, almost divine