I've figured out that endings have no need to be extravagant,
Nor do they have to stop abruptly mid sentence.
Endings are just endings, perhaps they are, as people have often said, new beginnings.
So I shall write a new chapter.
Just more useless musings I have taken upon myself to write down and let everyone see.
Just ramblings of an observant yet
Blinded female who calls her thoughts 'poems'.
I don't really need to entertain the thought of placing fanciful words here,
I might make myself sound more intelligent than I actually am.
So this is the end.
Until we meet again,
In yet another collection of musings and places where the minds wanders
From the secret thoughts of a deluded girl.
Fin.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth.
Poetry(n) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past. Collection no.2 --very old poems--
