At the Last

Light makes its retreat upon a thousand western hills and it is time for endings. overlapping, self and self, leaping on the past, like hurdlers in a race of the insane, the denouement broadcasting fear like seeds that flourish, feed, then gnaw upon the viscera. Then is dread self-orchestrated, colors fade, and hope is turned away. Even sadness now is quite stillborn, time suspended and the open door to God forever closed. How to prepare? Impossible. For at the end of endings might there be somewhere behind that far-off plain, unknown, unsought, somehow, something that begins? ~