A representation of you, thinking
About a paper womb, like your birthplace
What will you put in there, incubating
To take form, and earn applause or disgrace?
A palimpsest of pulchritude waits there
A female phantom, which is what you are
You seem to deliberate, passing fair
But from completing her, aren’t you quite far?
Your whole existence is this decision
Caught in amber, like a gorgeous insect
You have been rendered with pale precision
In order incompleteness to inspect
Art made to think that it is an artist
Complete, you’ll complete nothing, there’s the twist
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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