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There's a book that you read, but finished not quite;

an early typed draft that just wasn't right.

A version you had, that you made your way through,

wasn't complete and wasn't quite true.

Some chapters scary and filled with hope lost, 

others of love that's worth any cost.

Some parts uplifting, and others deplorable,

rekindling fire and pain that is horrible .

You read past these portions to see it turn out,

but you couldn't erase the fears of doubt.

That those horrible chapters might yet reappear.

Leaving you stranded, confirming your fear.

But a book read unfinished may best never been read,

For the ending the reader makes up in their head,

Though the story gets finished , the writing completed,

the reader never knows because their hope was defeated,

and the story to be told ends up on the floor, 

tossed to the side, behind a closed door. 

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