The Poem Was Panting
When He Left It, It Was Wounded And Blood
Flowed From The Veins
Of Its Own Words
The Poem Was Choking
And You Pity It
On Its Last Breath
It Was Saying
I Know You Did Not Love Me
But I Still Love You

You Should Have Saved The Poem
At Least From The
Death He Himself Inflicted
By Finishing It Because
If You Don’t
You Know What I Can Do
Under Said Circumstances
I’ll Have To Finish It Myself,
I Will Put
The Question Mark
And It Will Always Be
Open And Endless
In Fact, With A Question
As An Ending
That Poem Becomes
A Line
Ad Aeternum Like A Star On Its
Journey,
Never Ending