An Ode To Completion
It always starts with a thought;
A compulsion, some desire;
It always turns into a juggernaut
But ends with a flat tire.
We want things to be big and hot
But never find our way from the pyre;
A lost, unlucky cry for what isn’t;
And to start again tomorrow within it.
But always one more thing keeps us away
From the thing we want to fill our day;
A compassionate swirl of what we are
Mixed with what feels good and right;
A kiss, a hug, what leaves us so far
From the thing we want all day and night;
It feels right but seems ajar
Of what we’re used to, to blight
Our existence with a malleable scar
That only we see, and never tight
Enough to make us feel like who we are.