now that I'm up and

I've found my diverse and sundry misgivings
coalesced into one distinct dread:

completion

scares the
out of me

If I can be done with a poem
who is to say that I can't be done with?

and though I still may be abandoned
clutching incomplete couplets to my
at least I won't be alone

no need for
we interrupt this broadcast for breaking news-in-progress
or mystery novels with the endings torn
these omissions ensure
I will always have a familiar
to return to

yet even though I don't have the
to put an end to this
I won't be spiteful

everyone, person and poem
deserves a final

perhaps someone more
than I
would like to have
the last

In Progress

Ten years ago it seemed impossible
   That she should ever grow so calm as this,
    With self-remembrance in her warmest kiss
And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.
Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell,
    Silent with long-unbroken silences,
    Centred in self yet not unpleased to please,
Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.
Mindful of drudging daily common things,
    Patient at pastime, patient in her work,
Wearied perhaps but strenuous certainly.
Sometimes I fancy we may one day see
    Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk
And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.

Christina Rossetti 1862, 1896

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.