This Is My End

This Is My End 

This could be my end, my end where my breath ceases to weave with the wonders of life. This could be where my words no longer linger in the depths of my heart. Where my shadows finally find the bitter nuggets of my regret, and devour them with thrill.

I have many regrets, and though they haunt, I have found them to muse my words. To bring extraordinary thought to mind. Creating immense designs with the architecture of the soul. Building immortality between the lines of language.

This, may be the moment I become ash and am whisked away to the heavens. To see everything or nothing, so be it the wish of God. 

And where I end, upon my fall to earth, either in the pleasure of life, or in the misery of my own undoing. Either end, I have kissed the lips of life and danced with the wings of death.

I have felt suffering and I lived happiness. I have found love, and I have lost it. I have drank in the spirit of life and been glutton in the spirit of man. And though I have sinned beyond the time I was presented, in the miracle of birth. I hold no anger toward my crop.

For each seed I have planted, has been but a choice of mine. A choice to either dwell upon or plant a new. To either do what is right or do what I pleased. To either tend my crops or let the raw apathetic winds of winter leave them to suffer. My life has been a great bounty of breath, and I have done my best not to waste them to idle winds.

And this, to be my end, I would find peace among it. For angels have sung for me as child, and uncertainty has tested me. I have lived the rushes and the falls of life. I have held the soul of another, though I foolishly leapt upon it with haste, only to be bludgeoned by lack of chemistry.

I fear no out comes of death, for the strings of music have resonated profoundly upon my soul. I have waltzed among the stars in the visions of my heart. I have sung with oceans and found peace in the wildest of storms.

Though, my life may end before my design is complete.

My design of words that I pray to be recited like the philosophy of Aristotle. Like the teachings of Freud and the myths of the Greeks. To be echoed like a voice in the deepest of tunnels.

Though it may never be. I shall have no pity for my unfinished design. For it is but I, who had the time to bring it life, before I died. For I know, my design awaits me with breathe. Waiting with patient but sad eyes for me to spring it from the soil and let it bask in the rays of my thoughts.

To cast it upon the moon, like a kiss of the sun upon the cheek of a mothers child.

This may be my end, but I bring no misery with me.     

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, you'll enjoy A Man's Traveled Heart

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