The Unfinished Art Poem by Henry Tong

I never aspired to a dream full of violet stars,
each shining and glistening my lonely night afar.
I've polished my shoes, and chosen my favorite tie,
yet without my audience they do not deserve an eye.

The trips I ve conquered, as much as my ages entice,
have stifled my breaths, rolling my life a dice.
And there she arrived with a bouquet in her hand
for the love so remote, yet so close my mind would land.

Insofar as my insomia t'where I tend,
whichever the broken thoughts distance cannot mend,
I see the violet flowers flow, fragrance starts
like a purple rhapsody would once stir my heart.

She wraps her mind, wishing it would thus restore
the youngest blood that age cannot deplore.
Flowers will wither, their buds might bloom sore,
against the drought of desert, and thunder of Thor.

But in every violet star, a second, an iota of dust,
witnessed a day, a month, a shared glowing dusk.
In lines I wrote, In dreams I promised my heart,
to much willing, a closed loop, an unfinished art.