The Power of Poetry
We will meet again in the end

She stands at the top of the stairs, Her manicured hands curved into a steeple. She sings, her voice a steamy soprano. The darkness is hypnotizing. She takes my hand, and we descend the staircase. Together, we climb down the twisted path And we reach the end of the road. In the distance, I hear the faintest whisper of a bicycle bell. She sings. She frowns and leads me into a room decorated with fishbowls and teddy bears. She kisses me, her lips tasting of salt and regret. I stare at her as she closes her eyes, And I feel nothing as she lifts my hand from hers. Even when she is gone, I still hear the sound of her voice Singing that twisted lullaby. She was right; the end is never the beginning. It’s when you get there that you realize that it was the beginning so many times over.
We can’t wait for the rendezvous we will be here waiting when it happens. It already has happened somewhere. We must have been there all along.
We have all been here, long ago. We trek through memory, remembering the end of things behind the scenes. Forget about everything that you thought was real to see what is there. Be still, but do not go back. Do not come back until you finish.
Poetry is everywhere 💚 But the question is, how much do you love it?






