The end

by Jo Hart | Posted in Fiction

On when we stopped writing
how dust hang in the air
where words should have whirled.

Not one wrote a story on that.

To love turning terminal
unnoticeably slowly
thus lacking the urgency urging
no rupture of no heart.

Not one song was dedicated to that.

Upon the silence thereafter
when something once was
then maybe nothing after all
no longer had a name.

Not one poem dwells upon that.

And so we await the next
in silence.




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