The End

Empires built to
rule one
thousand years
unspool in ten.

Ninety thousand words of
fire and
brimstone
after the fact is
how history
remembers them.

The novelty of writing
novels
worth of nothing has
long worn off,
eroded like two
lovers’ names carved
into rock,

so many
summers
later.

Character
studies in my
worst qualities have

come back
to haunt me,

during story arcs
majoring in
the art
of collapse.

So the
remaining plot
points protract, staining
grass and walls alike to support
the mass of
bad creative
decisions on their
tiny, insect legs.

If, with every passing
page you felt more
bored than
enraged
at flawed characters that
didn’t learn and never
changed;

wouldn’t the
weight of that story make
us put it down?

That’s the
only damn part
I can’t seem
to figure
out.

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4 thoughts on “The End

  1. I heart it too. This is a fabulous piece of writing, very fine and distinct. I call this a “fattie”, a style I have not been able to conquer and admire your ability to write in such depth. Kudos!

    Like

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