And what of all those books unread
Still on the shelves when I am dead?
Are they perhaps a great deal worse
Than unthought rhymes unpenned in verse?
Will every unfulfilled desire
Deep down still leave me uninspired?
Unopened letters, bills unpaid,
Will they, like unseen scenes, just fade?
And what about those things unsaid
That sit there swirling in my head?
Are unsworn oaths that come to mind,
If they're unspoken, still unkind?
Should I just drop unspoken words
Like seeds to feed ungrateful birds?
Or shall they lie upon the ground,
Unopened treasure yet unfound?