Un- Poem by Maclene Marcaida

I am an unfinished painting,
an unpolished mirror
with a cloudy, steamy purpose.
An uneasy structure,
unwaxed floor, rough texture
from outside into my core.
What am I?
I am What?
An unstable product.
An unsupported fact.

A school project undone,
a voice unheard of or seldom.
Undressed manequin,
Unarmed queen.
An unclear poem, like this.
Unfertilized seed without a
growth promise.

An untouched pool,
unwiped drool,
cemented.
I'm duh, I'm unclean.
Countless, I say, it has been.

At the verge of
unsureness of my identity
Am I a duck, a swine, or a vine?
An unplanned baby thrown at
the mess can?
He came
Christ approached and told me:
'Son, ' One word then I knew who
I was and will be. The unmatched
King of kings is my father.
Unfailing,
His love ain't like any other.

Unchained me from one endless
torture. He's unseen, but His grace
transcends every creature.