Poetry

The End

It is waiting

We stare at each other every day, We both are playing a game, I think it is a game of life, But it knows different, It is playing the game of death, A game to the finish, A game to finish me.

It is patient, It knows it can wait, It has played it for so long, It has played it with so many.

Nothing is new to it, No one can say, Or do anything, It has seen it all, It plays the waiting game, Like nothing else can.

It knows to break it down, How to break me down, Piece by piece, Little by little, Part by part, Day by day.

I watch everything deteriorate, I fight it with everything I have, But I keep losing, I gain some, But I always lose more.

Minor battles are won, The major war rages on, Nothing is ever the same, Even in victory, The loss is inevitable.

One part is willing, Even if weakened, The rest is a wreck, Never to be the same, The old glory, Just a fading memory.

It plays the game, Better than anyone, It has played it long and hard, It has played it with all, Before, Now, And in the future.

It has waited, It can wait, It will wait, It is waiting.

The End.