the middle page.

somewhere between

the beginning and an end

a lonely crowd waits for its turn

yearning for fingers to caress their cheeks

for eyes to read

an uneasy please

something that they did not start

a prose they can never hope to end

that middle word, of a middle verse

silently stands on desperate sands

granules that slide

like a million marbles underneath

their existence fleeting

like an unrealized dream

seen yet

not remembered their face

heard yet forgotten

their tender noise

somewhere between

the beginning and an end

a lonely crowd waits for its turn

to be someone

worthy of praise.

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