Somewhere within, lurks a fear of endings or of their anticipation.
What would be beyond,
when a poem ends
thoughts wonder?
An emptiness?
A rhythmic ticking of clocks?
Long hours of boredom
punctuated by brief respite
of unappetizing lunch,
and then, dinner?
The heaviness
of the thought of
repeating it
all over again, tomorrow?
Is there a name for this fear
that one can inscribe
on an index card and carry?
Google tried,
but failed.
Perhaps, we could name it
Finistophobia -
an emotion of fear
generated by
anticipation of endings
often followed by
a sense of a never “ending”
emptiness.
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