The End

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
And scene...

Submitted: July 08, 2019

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Submitted: July 08, 2019

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The End

 

Why do you appear?

The day is over,

The night has come,

And the memories of last year…

 

The moon

He hides in fear.

Cast light upon him,

The reason is clear.

Swallow him with clouds,

Down falls the tears.

 

There is no end dear,

Although this is quite near.

Edging towards a new frontier,

Akin to the turning of a sphere.

 

Something is severe,

An echo perseveres.

I won’t be insincere,

Facts

 Are

 Facts,

There’s nothing left to adhere…

 

 

 

...

 

“Settle, gather around. I have something to tell you…

 

...Now I don’t know if you know how this story ends. You might’ve heard it before, and that’s fine. Won’t hold it against you if you spoil the ending. But hear me out, one more time. A moment like this only lasts if you let it…”

 

Actions follow actions,

And motives have motives.

If this is the end of attraction,

Let it out in the open.

 

For the night is dark and full of terror.

Equal is the heart,

When it is rife with error.

 

And to know that such a thing exists.

A fool,

There once was,

This one will persist.

 

He fell in love with a girl way out west, 

One look at her to swell his heart inside his chest. 

 

First they danced, and they sang,

They caught a wild Mustang.

 

They talked, and they laughed,

She said jump, and he didn’t ask.

 

Then she left him no money, left him no clothes,

Prickly was her name, that wild west rose.

 

And so he trudged back home, 100 miles or so,

To come to the end of a road he’d know.

 

And when he got to the steps, he looked up at the stars,

Walked away, locked the doors and cried in his old man’s car.

 

When he was done running his eyes and blowing his nose,

He stopped to think hard about his life’s woes.

 

Like when he was eight and slammed his finger in the door,

Weeping as he picked up his nail off the floor. 

 

Or a time since past,

Long after the grandfather had passed.

 

Even still, a couple years will pass the time,

Still throwing smooth stones along the coastline.

 

And so he shed not a single tear,

For he knew that his old man was near.

 

And resolved to walk and strut his stuff,

Cause he knew that the end would call his bluff.

 

The day came when he wasn’t,

And would never be a man that doesn’t. 

 

And so came the sharp-faced prick,

Ready to build his wall, brick by brick.

 

The fool stood resolute,

A tree that would be pulled out,

Stem and Roots.

 

Smiled back at the devil, said “look dear,

You won’t be laughing any longer for my old man is here.

 

The devil struck him down,

He fell upon his knees.

From his temples fell his crown,

From his roots came his weeds.

 

And out of those weeds,

Came the stories of old.

A list of his needs,

Diatribes that stay cold. 

 

The Golden Touch,

The Pushes and Pulls.

Arnhem is his crutch,

3rd & Elm his raging bull.

 

The Cloth Doll,

& The Long Luscious Locks. 

One says it all,

The other is out of stock.

 

My Son,

Ave Atque Vale.

When You’re gone and done,

Read LBM’s Anthology.

 

And Whether you Return,

Leave,

Or Never exist at all,

Know there is a day,

The Saints shall make the call.

 

From Now Till Then,

I leave you with My Memory.

Looking for it again?

Remember Our Anniversary.

 

The fool closed his mouth,

The last syllable upon his lips shuddered.

Down came the letter from the south,

A wound from which he could not recover.

 

So sad to end the story of a man on his knees,

But all the better to know in the end,

The fool was me…

 

 

 

 

 

You appear,

The same as every day,

& yet…

A certain quality is smeared. 

 

You lost some part of you,

On the road that you walked. 

You went full circle,

Came back,

And balked. 

 

There was some meaning,

Not to them but to you.

You found a way to write,

And somehow you knew.

 

You knew I’d end up here again. 


 

The paper draws to a close.

 

The memories of every text,

Be it a poem or prose.

 

How does five years pass?

And no one sees it the same?

 

How can you live with yourself,

Not even saying their names?

 

How do you move on? 

When the sun is setting,

The street lights shine bright.

Is there something I’m forgetting,

About how the day turns into night?

 

Have you forgotten the little light,

The one that turns on in your head?

Did you leave something alive in the night,

Only to hear later it was dead?

 

Did you forget me?

Was that part of The End?

Can you only be,

With something left to mend?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 It is time again, 

To turn back the clock and,

Remind yourself when,

You could live for the first time.

Again.

 

Was this The End?

Or the start of something new?

Did you find a friend,

Or did you find you?

 

For Mike Dunn.















 


© Copyright 2019 Dan Zuniga. All rights reserved.

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