Unfinished
We assume it has to wrap up tidily
That all things come to a definable end
Yes or no, good or bad, heaven or hell
Maybe it’s better if it ends unfinished—
The almost masterpiece whose artist
Dies in his sleep the night before
He can apply the final brushstrokes.
The featureless face of the statue
Whose sculptor never decides
Who it should look like.
How heaven becomes a hell of perfection
While the damned begin to hum
The plaintive hymn of grace and salvation—
Back and forth it goes,
Where are we now? And why?
Caught equidistantly between
The beginning and the end,
Feeling good about yourself
Just as you’re about to die
1/27/26
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