There’s this list:
an almost perfect year-ender,
a chord that didn’t fit so
you had to play it broken,
drafts written for the purpose
of being great poems
but remained as is because
they were missing powerful
words.

The deafening silence.
The feelings you tried to ****.
The misunderstood hints.

Or tropical countries waiting for snow
and insightful books selling poorly.

Somewhere, a boy caught up
in a scenery and bright sunlight.
He wants to be a photographer
but fails to capture passing moments.

“They were too fast”, he said.