Because nothing ever ends in poetry
It ends in blood and tears
We make it poetry.

It ends painfully
Painstakingly.

But we turn it into beautiful melodic words
Turn it upside down,
Spin it around,
Wrap it beautifully
While we sit in suffering.
Hoping that our pretty little words
Cover up scars and wounds
Hopefully heals something we thought never would.

Floating...
lost,
within the multicolored
fragments
of consciousness,
seeds of life
and of all
creation,
everywhere...
my mind a spinning
vortex, all
thought a
myriad
of turbulent
confusions...
I am lost,
within
myself.
And it is good.