By Thomas Page

Endings either come too soon or too late.

The theatergoers itching to move

Watching the actor butcher the iamb times five;

The shoe on the gas-pedal rolling the ankle

With the hand primed on the horn;

The pilgrims waiting for the pilgrimage to end

So that they can lay their head on their pillows.

Ouroboros circling above

Again and again

Seeing the tail being eaten by the end

Again and again

Like the rains feeding the lakes feeding the clouds

Again and again

The sky shines blue with it.

There is always some end to every beginning

But there may be a beginning to every end—

The mountaineer has to scale down the summit

Avoiding all of the hazards they faced on the way up

In reverse—

Sisyphus chasing the rock—

But with renewed vigor that it can be done

And it has be done

And it will be done.

The valleys beneath the spiked boots

Higher than the sun in its zenith

Finding the limits of the sky

Barely out of reach.

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