ENDING
I read my life’s enchanted story,
my worry
increasing:
the last page was, but now is missing.
I read, my prospects drenched in sorrow:
tomorrow—
unknown,
not set on paper or in stone.
I read, but now it’s time to write.
All night
I shout
and scream, but what to write about
no mortal being really knows.
My prose
is rage
expressed in smears on final page.
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