A reflective poem of ending, story, and lies, exploring change, memory and inner weather.
February 11, 2004Early Notebooks
An ending to the story lies not in books
nor in the orbs of believers’ earnest looks.
It is not written in sacred tomes,
nor whispered in prophecies carved in stone.
Instead, it is found in the mind’s fierce fight,
a battle that rages in the quiet of night.
Creating, nurturing, forging anew,
finalized in thoughts where dreams break through.
These thoughts are stored, sealed and revered,
re-used through time, though rarely cleared.
Echoes of wisdom and fragments of pain,
held in our hearts like an unbroken chain.
But what of thoughts in the light of forever?
Immortality shatters what we once tethered.
For if death does not come to close the book,
our tales become shadows—lost, overlooked.
So let us write while we are bound by time,
for the final chapter lives in the mind.
A story complete when breath departs—
an echo of life, a work of art.
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