| The ending crept up upon me suddenly, amidst the revelry
yet I did not note its attendance.
Too caught up was I in the crack of flesh
on flesh and the sweat of sweet debauchery to take much
notice.
But had I known that the ending's come, that the torrent that had once flowed so mightily was about to slow to a trickle and then die, what would I have done with that reality? And what of such endings, whose presence is announced so abruptly? What does one do with the rude certainty and bittersweet memory? It's not about choices, for choice is an illusion. It's not about honor, for that perished long ago. It's not about conscience, for it consumes leaving nothing. What then does one do, when the ending's come? |