Poetry in motion

My mind is cluttered with fragments of
The blurry tragic love story
I am occupied with wanting to make it alive
In motion called a film by many
Constructing it slowly without any particular order or sense
Merging together memories, fiction and feelings
Which can be produced by reading a poetry only
I am writing just another story
Without happy end
But with endless wondering if film presents a life or
Life presents a film that never got made?

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