Painting by George Ram
it’s come to pass
the page has turned
the last chapter
stands open
its many ways
ready for
saying goodbye
without matter
to which one
it chooses to use
no writ ending
is needed
to eradicate
all of the tale
that preceded it
already evident
meaninglessness
of the story
the time-taught
ephemeral nature
of flesh and blood books
the snuffed candle
will miss not the light
the read page
not the passionate pen
the heard speech
not the earnest intent
even narratives
sung to a music
exquisite of echoes
will dissipate
faster than memories
where goes the
shadow in darkness
what happens to
careful laid
dust in the wind
who will care
give a damn
for the author
of episodes
worthless outside of
their moments mere
chapters of yesterday
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“She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
— To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.”
— Shakespeare, from Macbeth
Poesy plus Polemics 