Once upon a rhyme, there was a poem waiting to be written. So many things happened around it but nobody came close to finishing it. Perhaps the literature was conspiring against the poets. Whatever be the excuse, the poem never got penned in its entirety. Since it couldn't fully take place, it couldn't fully die either. Immortality stayed out of question. As an aftermath, it remained hanging somewhere in the middle. For what words are worth, it still is. The world seems to be falling apart and whatnot. But it is yet to fulfill its destiny. Something doesn't feel right but who's to blame? And everybody in the room is leaving happily ever after.