Unfinished Poem by John F. McCullagh

Schubert’s hands have grown cold
Their mission unfulfilled
His symphony unfinished
His voice forever stilled.

Some notes were left behind him
A partly finished score
Two terrific movements
Left orphaned ever more.

Those who’ve made the effort
To finish out the piece
Have only met frustration
Channeling the deceased

His symphony was like his life-
The interrupted kind
Both haunted by a melody
Unfinished in the mind


by Robert J. McCullagh