Here’s a more serious, thoughtful poem to contrast with Runaway Writer in my last post. This one’s called Half-Life.
Ignorant of the whole, one cannot mourn the loss of the half,
Despair has no foothold, loneliness no grip,
Until that half is found, recognised, loved.
Is a half, unaware that it is such, then whole?
And on discovering that it has only ever been but one of two,
Must it forever live its half-life
With no hope for completion, for fulfilment?
by Vicki Watson