Death awaits at journey’s end
A silent half-thought sentence
Waylaid, suspended in mid-air
Floating neither up nor down, just there
With care I would attend the words wrought for that closing phrase
So many drafts, how densely filled, that final august page
How tedious, how tiresome, the bleak unmetered text
In vain anticipation of some good that must come next
Attend you now the space before that final deathly dot
It’s there for you to fill with love, for that is all you’ve got.
©1902, ThaumatropeMind. All rights reserved
