Unfinished

Sitting here, writing,
Asking you questions
About nothing, rhyming,
But not all the way, half
Dysfunctional STOP starts
With an M, like me,
Like sheep, huddling,
Fleeced behind a stone wall,
Decoding enemy lines
With an inkwell made of
Papier-m?ch?: it dissolves
In water, smells of nothing,
Looks like me, moulded,
Ghostly pale, breath of Zeus,
And a creation story or two,
We know who it really was,
Except when we don't.
I really must ask you
Who's Lenin, and why
Goodbye to the pagoda,
The troops of airplanes
That I never yet saw fly,
Wings unbuilt, unfinished.