A cold period though not of winter…
It was the dry stretch before an end.
Half-written lines were tossed away;
They could not quite convey the feeling.
Justice could not be served
By the illegible, frantic letters.
It needed to be written,
But the hourglass was running out.
The poem was left behind,
Barely started, never finished
When the poet departed.
Whether willingly or with bitter fear,
The poet was taken on a different course
While the poem just sat in a drawer.
He kept it safe; no one had known
That there lay it, wanting more.
It was a poem he thought he could save
And yet to the world was never shown.
Now the potential is trapped in a grave
While the poem remains.
It’s barely started, never finished…
Perhaps it could not be written alone.