Back at my worn out desk Where former triumphs were written Where former losses were forgotten Where now lies a void Light glimmering through the curtains Sun has just risen Dust motes dancing slowly in the light Sun needs to rise How else she could fall Ink on the paper in scruffy lines Markings leading nowhere I can hear The roots of the trees Growing Deep under My feet I can feel The sky falling Down from Where it Used to be I can see The stars becoming Dim And the darkness Of the sky Should I merge These lines Or just Let them die I have departed and I will not return Yet to proceed is not to arrive To reach out is not to achieve Nearly there is not complete Not the journey that matters Nor the destination Not close, not near, not becoming Just steps or parts incomplete Incomplete is a form of loss Incomplete is a form of pain Incomplete is an ordeal Shall I proceed The March Incomplete