I am a poem writing itself,
ink spilling out of imagination.
Unfinished, some days I go hanging
upon half a phrase, sometimes
to go without meaning for a while.
I dream to be of epic things, teeming
with angels and devils and heroes,
but I do not know more than the words
that are written here. I think it must
be nice in the stories outside my
little window into being, but
I am satisfied merely to have begun,
and to know I have an ending
that gives me a reason to be.
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