Unfinished

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Burnt coffee slowly going cold,

A self-portrait the artist never finished,

Last night’s eveningwear strewn across the room,

An ancient cat, having gathered a lifetime’s worth of dust on its fur,

Grooming herself in the corner,

And in center stage,

The artist dancing

With the ghost of his lover,

Fingers wrapped around air,

Heart beating to the sound of a distant song,

Waltzing around the phantom of loves long lost,

Kicking up little plumes of dust with each twirl,

Which, having been freed, float up, up, and towards greater things,

Settling again on the chandelier to live anew amongst the cobwebs.

 

The melody ends, and the dancer crumples, spent, to the floor,

His lovely ghost floating up, up, and away,

And the artist sheds a single tear

Before leaping up to dance anew

To the beat of distant drums that play his heart like a string

On some foreign instrument

He’d never had the luxury of playing in life.

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