sentences go unfinished,
lines of dialogue
are left hanging
like
unpicked fruit
on a vine.
balloons of thought
are in the air,
no longer
tethered
by the one who
thought them.
very little is finished,
not the poem
the story,
the lie.
things drift off
as they often do,
life rushes forward
with no period pressed
at the end of each line.
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