The Rest of the Story

There will be no Apocalypse.

No ending of the world.

Certainly no ending of me.

Oh, they of the balance of

Light and darkness,

Young Loves unaware of

The nature of me,

Gather shells like squirrels

Before winter.

And happiness still eludes them.

Why?

Like I said, I threw paint at a canvas

And saw you.

I’m still throwing paint.

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