By Noella Thu
This is it, I muse: I stand at the end.
“Not an end,” they reply, “the years gone by
Are simply means to new beginnings, friend;
Those dreaded nights of heavy-lidded eyes
Have come to head with this diverging road
What’s past is past, shrouded in yellow wood.”
With this now soft, cruel platitude I’m towed
Towards the crossroads on which I am stood;
Each ending is a new beginning, sure
E’en so I’ll rest beneath this aging tree,
With mourning pure reflect on moments blurred
By time and the cruel fate of memory.
Although all endings do beget fresh starts
Each ending is an end, and each road parts