Stories In The End

The sand, the sand,

Leaking through the hourglass,

Building fragile patterns

And waiting for all to pass.

The tiny trickling stream,

Hopping from his muddy spring

Winds through the cypress grove

And happily begins to sing.

The nymphs’ bubbling song

Is drowned by the tyrant’s scream.

‘Hear me, love me, fear me,’ he shrieks,

As the witless hold him in esteem.

Tremulous and tired, 

the mother kisses her child’s head,

As Fear and Loathing come calling,

On the streets outside her bed.

Her stout heart and hopeless pain,

Made flat and smooth to fit

Into dusty pages on dusty shelves

Within the library where History may sit.

Outside on the Red Planet

Made lush and green by Man’s mind,

The vastness of space is gentle,

Indifferent to the stories that bind.

When all fades to dust and starlight,

And there is Nothing left to fend,

There may be a quivering thought

That we are all stories in the end.