There is no place to start anymore
   there is only an ending
      a period to close the time
               where the day falls
               against the wall
               dreaming of doors
               and the name of hope
                  dies in a whisper on its lips

This period is just a long sentence unfinished
   that kept running
               and running
      long after the path had grown over
   stuck in the weeds of an epilogue
      mourning the life of a prologue
               desperately searching for a new beginning.

When the book closes
   There is a cloud of dust
      that the sun lights on fire
               in silence
   the dust settles before nightfall

      The moon is away this evening.