Incomplete

Words are but for expression,
a means to another end,
scraping beneath the surface,
peering across the bend.

The meaning lies in the canvas,
that I must paint with thought,
I can but conjure puzzles,
the answers must still be sought.

Answers I wish are profound,
to mysteries not too small,
while I worry I'll not solve any,
I'm scared to solve them all.

Why can't answers we choose,
from as far as the mind can fly,
must we ever run out of rhymes?
must the child ever die?

to be continued. Someday.