It’s the end.

The sky screams the most unnatural colors,
smoldering in the heat of the sinking sun.
Heavy clouds climb over each others knees
to escape the toil of another revolution;
grasping at the tops of trees with their fat hands
in an attempt to pull themselves free of the firmament.

It’s the end.

Rivers release children into the custody of towels and minivans,
the crocuses pull their colors about slender frames, and
footballs, baseballs, and frisbees, all call a halt to their flight
to nest once again in sports bags and car trunks.

It’s the end.

I ponder the void of an empty sheet of paper, and
question the arrogant notion that a properly filled page
can make a much more profound statement than a decidedly lacking one.

Indecisive as always, I turn to the empty page and ask, “Do you find yourself fulfilled or lacking?”

By way of an answer the page replies,
“I once was a tree,
who was a seed,
who was the sun,
who wanted the moon,
who loved the earth instead.”

It’s a slow death,
the sort in which bone still carries flesh
around bed posts and abandoned socks

in which hairs still stand at attention
for a whisper and the burn of hot breath
on the back of the ear

in which copulation still
bates a hook on those sandy shores
and awaits a bite

It’s a slow death,
but a death nonetheless