Should life cease, will I be ready to pass
into that other place, through dark doors
landing in glorious light? Or, shall I ponder
on an unfinished life?
Comprised of words unspoken
silenced by correctness,
of dreams unimagined, nebulous, amorphous,
seeds yet unbirthed,
of love horded miserly, never expressed,
retained until there’s no one left,
still gazing across one-day vistas waiting
for a time that never occurs,
will echoes of unheard, undiscovered family
haunt me always?
No, I think I shall be contrary and decline
the passage into unknown horizons;
after all, I’m still a work under construction
struggling to release self-imposed exiles, create
a new world within the boundaries,
the confines, of my incomplete soul.