To my unfinished poems,
With meter mostly set,
With rhymes more off than on,
Labeled 'work in progress',
Perhaps more aptly named,
'Soul in Purgatory',
To wait, and wait, for what?
Cosmic resolution?
So what will be, will be?
What good are lines half-drawn,
Or turns of phrase unturned?
Not much, at least to me,
All we can do is wait;

Till part of me returns,
Most often unannounced,
Not some creative spark,
More like a frame of mind,
Maybe a flame of soul,
Some emotion, some thought,
Like you, my poem, undone,
I'll take my pen and write,
I'll plot and scheme and rhyme,
And take right turns of phrase,
Draw point to point in pen,
To make your lines complete.
All we must do is wait;

But, if that fleeting part,
Should never come again,
I may still try my pen,
To polish and refine,
To try and so contrive,
But you, I'd never love,
A work not in progress,
Better left in limbo,
Not bound for wing or cloud,
By rapture of the pen,
And better I move on,
So, what will be will be;
And to Hell with you then.

© Craig Wann