My life is in this constant beginning stage.
I keep getting sent back to the start.
And as things end before I can mourn them,
yet another thing has begun.
But, there are things with I've come to love.
I'm finding art in this,
this displacement.
I'm finding ways to make it work.
I'm making music
I'm singing out
I'm writing every word.
There is art inside my prolouge.
There is sorrow in my art.
And, inside me? Well, I wonder.
It's my unknown middle
my unknown end.
And take this to heart.
Because no epilouges, no euligys
fall forth from this pen.
Nothing ends
no sorrow prevails
no words truely fade.
And nor shall I.
I'll never really
fade