Not Quite Finished
I
A poem is struggling within
Finished and unfinished, a thin
Line of demarcation. I mark your words
They germinate, but like swords
Diction bears contradictions in wombs
Some do good, some usher us to tombs
II
So, it's not love or hate, not that mix
I'm struggling to let it out, find a fix
For what ails my soul. My heart happy
My will, patience strong, streets unhappy
The environment - a topic for another day -
Is it my conscience, aesthetic sense & sway
That irk me, as evening & sunset beckon
Yet your words like 'silence' & waves & skies beckon
If I write of True Peace, true coexistence, His creation
Will I abort the poem, or meaning, deLiGHTful Imagination
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