.
.
.
To my sister's flower painting
A canvas only half full
With the beautiful strokes and lines
What use are roses and daisies
When half the canvas is white.
To my brother's academic life
As he studied many nights
He wanted a college degree
But it required four years
And he could only give three.
To my Aunt's first novel
That sits with thirty-three chapters
She said there'd be forty-four
But she died before
She could write them all.
To all the unfinished things
To those who couldn't touch their dreams
To those who didn't get their happy endings
To you and me.
Mar 24, 2021
Mar 24, 2021 at 10:33 PM UTC
.
.
.
To my sister's flower painting
A canvas only half full
With the beautiful strokes and lines
What use are roses and daisies
When half the canvas is white.
To my brother's academic life
As he studied many nights
He wanted a college degree
But it required four years
And he could only give three.
To my Aunt's first novel
That sits with thirty-three chapters
She said there'd be forty-four
But she died before
She could write them all.
To all the unfinished things
To those who couldn't touch their dreams
To those who didn't get their happy endings
To you and me.
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