If Life
Is what you make of it,
Then i ask you,
Will it ever be over?
How often we all
Start a new project and never complete it.
Closets full of half-pieced quilts.
Drawers of uncrossed cross stitch.
Journals and flash drives of unclimaxed novels.
Garages of blocked cars.
Sheds of unhammered plywood.
This is life.
Ideas begun
And ended without end.
The East says that life restarts until it is complete.
What incentive, have we, then, to finish?
Is the bare balsa wood schooner
Sail-less
On a card table in the attic
Assurance of another lifetime?
We repeat
And repeat
And repeat
Until we are finished.
If life
Is what we make of it,
And all we make are
Unfinished projects…
Are we immortal?
And if we choose that our time is up,
Do we simply put the last stroke on the canvas?
Then lay our head
In the knowledge
We are finished.
We are finished.
Finally.
We are finished.
I wonder.