The End

The end is here,
the end of love.
The stony heart is broken.
The autumn over,
and the winter begun.
The start a memory.
A misted sun.

The end is welcome,
if it's less than the start.
Less than the death,
at the end of the path.
The end of love means nothing
compared to the end of the day.
The end is empty,
cold and grey,
Not horrific and black.
Not black.
Not black.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.