All I do or think
is always left unfinished.
Wanting, I want the infinite.
Doing, nothing is ever true.
What disgust I get
looking at my output.
My soul is smooth and fertile,
but I am a sea of leftovers.
A sea of floating fragments
from far away seas.
Decision or introspection?
I don't know, and I know it well.
Images from pixabay
I am delighted. Thank you for continuing to write.