There is an end here,
somewhere.

It looms on the horizon,
making itself seen.
That forlorn stranger
sending echos across the
planes.

Were there not rains here?
Was there not life?
Is there no road here,
stretching back into the woods?
Could the faces not be seen?
Were the voices not heard?

There is an end here somewhere.

Is it closer?
Can not the moon swallow it up,
and take it back over the horizon?
To give these fields just one more day?

These longing butterflies
and aching rains.
Intertwined with these wild flowers,
who were only born yesterday.
This parched land,
only recently made.

I know there is an end here somewhere.

Just beyond the horizon,
behind the clouds,
guarded by that tattered creature,
and I will not go there.

Not yet.