I search for seeds of inspiration
in pages covered with gashes bleeding
crossed-out sentences and words frantically scrawled
onto waiting lines before they could vanish into the bottomless pockets of my psyche 
only to unearth poems decapitated
by a barren pen, silenced
before they could reach their fortissimo,
their endings long forgotten, 
cast away by a careless wind.

Perhaps these poems are not condemned to blank decay but roaming
some foreign universe, searching
for purpose, destiny
just as we journey through our own lives with torch 
in hand, hoping to find
our fulfillment hidden
in worn nuggets of traded wisdom, the flowering
fruit of our courage.

We are unfinished poetry, our endings
scrambled in a cyclone of conflicting dreams,
our tomorrows shrouded by an enigmatic haze.
The wonder of our lives is the fog that awaits
us, our present moments and the thrill
we may discover in our next unwritten