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...