A book left partly read by a voracious reader,
came in his dream and revealed the secret:
"Don't you think anything left incomplete
would mean much more than a definite finis?
When each new reader tries to fill the gap
the unwritten part gets richer than the other.
Here is a book left unfinished by the author,
whose life suddenly said "NO" in just two bold letters.
Does the book's self feel incomplete? Who knows?
But think of this: Does anything we know ever get completed?
Why bother about the changing patterns of this kaleidoscope
as we are only colored specks that turn and turn with the rest.
Time, that magical construct, hates perfection, (would you believe?)
though it loves to draw circles mistaken as perfect,
when it's really another form of limitation, by deceit.