It came to come;
with no trumpet call,
no fanfare flair,
no grand parade,
just dust, after all.
It came to be;
without a plan,
without a dream,
of what becoming
really means.
It came to pass;
a lingering lilt of longing,
played with a chorus,
of echoes coming
from distant thrills.
It came to ask;
why no answers given,
to questions asked,
about why your dreaming
has not moved on...
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