An End Fulfilled

I know I know not any either, or,

at second glance, I cannot know the first.

So come not past my end, neither before.

How can our hymns of praise sound unrehearsed?

I don’t know which ends up in outer space,

which gets me down, will ever fall on you.

The Heavens know a guiltless guilty face,

but what the Hell am I supposed to do?

I wrote a girl a sonnet once, for free,

and left her feeling poorer for the gift.

She never gave a poem back to me.

I read it once; I think she caught my drift.

It wasn’t for her, neither was it mine,

an end fulfilled, no purpose or design.