A poem with no ending

The wind hums low in the belly of dawn,

whispering secrets the earth has outgrown.

A sparrow awakens, then lifts into flight,

chasing the sun as it sharpens the light.

Footsteps on cobblestone, hollow and thin,

echo in doorways where stories begin.

Letters unwritten in pages unturned,

embers still smoldering, never quite burned.

The river remembers the names of the rain,

carrying voices that call out in vain.

Pebbles are softened, then stolen away—

where do they rest at the end of the day?

A wanderer hums an unfinished tune,

carving the air with the weight of the moon.

The road never bends where it’s meant to go,

the stars never tell what they seem to know.

And somewhere, a clock with no hands still ticks,

measuring time in the dust that it flicks.

A child builds castles in warm, golden sand,

waves kiss the edges, erase where they stand.

The echo of laughter, a flicker of pain,

the seasons dissolve, then gather again.

Shadows grow longer but never quite stay,

memories drift as the dusk fades away.

The poet keeps writing in ink that won’t dry,

tracing the echoes of "how" and of "why."

Every word lingers, then beckons the next,

a circle of meaning, forever perplexed.

And so it continues, on whispers, on air,

on footprints erased but never quite bare.

A poem with no ending, a story half-told,

a candle still flickering, quiet and bold…