Some poems never end, Nor were they meant too. Alliterative phrases, invitations, Add a verse, a word, even a sound, An exclamation of delight, A stanza in its own right.
Unfinished work, forever additive, collaborative. Modify mine, pass it on, Free to steal it, For ownership passes to you, with your first reading, And lost when you close it, Stamp and release it into the atmosphere.
But some poems do. End. Unique and distinct, Pockmarked-faced at birth. Owned by my initials, Never to see the shelves of a Lending Library.
Like this one:
Cannot remember a single day When suicidal thoughts Were not heard clearly above the fray Of jingle-jangled, responsibilities Demanding my immediate attention.
The end.
NML
First published here on HP one year ago today. 6/5/13