The Running Sentence

The word magic is slowly losing its spark.
That same spark has leapt to another
state of madness and we are all losing
our outfits and a mark of distaste is hanging
on my tongue, like a loose sweater on the
arms of a tree, blowing in the dead of night.
Seeking warmth in the meaning of literature.
Getting disconnected inside words and
their different shapes and taking part in
their different worlds that are always
expanding, like a constant coral sea
life, ebbing with the motion of everything
it the surrounding area, that ought to be
something like magic, hasn’t it?
Words absorbing and adapting.
People coming and going.
Sentences starting and ending, and running.
I always found it odd, that a sentence
could run on, without having grown legs.