Will there be a day
When your chin will leave
Its perpetual palm?

When every question
You have asked
Will have its answer?

Those days lie in fiction_
But no novel 
You have read.

Life ends in half rhyme,
In a doorknob touched
And not opened,

In a comma 
Whose next clause is unwritten
By art,

Or else by the artist, 
Like me,
Who could not find his answer.