by Steve King
© 2012
All rights reserved
Death shall punctuate our lines,
granting prospect of new song
to a readied empty space
waiting to enfold new life.
But new life is isolate,
only briefly in its place:
inconstant, unmemoried,
just a sketch wrought all too quick,
no right of rhythm or rhyme
inhering in its leavings;
no entrée to high design
save by good fortune, perhaps,
or if that final hard mark
should fall on a random grace,
sanctifying that last trace.
Punctuation without care
to how that next waiting space
might serve then to rectify
forgone lines of yesterdays—
so many acts left undone,
and so much nearly complete,
all so suddenly effaced,
silent in unfinished lines.
'Unfinished Lines' to be shared Tuesday at dVersepoets Open Link Night. Come Join!
http://dversepoets.com/
