cleaverchris

Frantic, sweaty. Death settled in around him,
thick and constricting. He was afraid of the end.

A memory is unearthed; a dead flower blooms.
All things buried in thought are without end.

She cries out for her lost love, her #2 companion,
a well-worn pencil with love bites on one end.

I think I’ll wear a white shirt today, but it don’t matter.
My job ain’t so bad, but my life’s a shitty dead end.

People murmur and stretch in their velvet seats
as credits roll and the film plays to the end.

Christmas came and went this year. Again.
And my stories always finish the same: The End.