Shared with W3 – The Pararhyme Paradox around the theme of incompleteness.

All the pieces scattered across the floor

like the petals picked off the flower;


She loves me, she loves me not, some days

she loves to imagine how she dies;


A search for corners finds one amiss
this may, for a moment, mildly amuse;


She’s incomplete, though nearly whole,
so the hunt continues along for a while;


The missing part may be under wraps
or lying beyond the end of her ropes;
Every day, a new donning of caps
becomes the method by which she copes;


All your playbooks, now ripped and torn,
watching in wonder, awaiting your turn;
Under a bridge or to the manor born,
there’s a fire inside, ready to burn;
So she’s a puzzle, a partial form,
Yet here she stands, resolute and firm.