I hope to die as unfinished poetry, with its soul intact, the pages worn out, the writing smudged with tears, the letters a bit crooked from impatient passion, the scent of unlived lives and dreams almost written in invisible ink only revealing to a discerning and perceptive reader, a poem familiar and loved where instantly most people remember a few lines and only very few know or remember more ... some day ... someone would come by ... and finish it maybe? Or, wonder how even if the poetry seems a little raw and aching, a little unpolished, awkwardly amateurish it feels strangely authentic. Maybe it would need another poem equally unfinished, where together it reads as better poetry ... maybe not.

Maybe, that is all I would ever be ... a few lines of badly written verse that had the potential to be beautiful poetry but did not ... but nevertheless ached to be glorious music.

- SS