Once, there was a story that stopped—
that stopped—
that stuttered, fluttered,
waivered back and forth,
as if unsure whether to choose
certain doom
or definite destruction.
Once upon a time, THE END
could not come too soon,
THE END was coming too soon,
Too soon, THE END would come for the waivering,
unbravering
story, the story that stopped—
like a broken clock,
a badly broken clock, a broken with
13 numerals,
frozen,
illogically,
frustratingly,
ominously
on twenty-three,
twenty-three,
impossible twenty-three.
And all the quavering blavering story wanted
was THE END, but, O Gods,
not yet,
not so soon,
not before the story had a chance to be told,
even if it had to tell itself,
every story, from BEGINNING OH MY GODS—
where’s the BEGINNING?
what must you think of our housekeeping,
all THE END,
and not even a little bit of ONCE UPON,
or LEND ME YOUR ORACLES,
or even LEND ME YOUR EARS, AND I’LL SING YOU A SONG,
no,
just this knavish palavering,
and here it is,
we’re already at THE END,
and I never had a chance
to tell you
what it was
we were ending.
such is the fate or
any mortal thing,
and this is what
you must guard against:
be careful never to end
without truly beginning,
because, believe me,
the Reader can tell,
and she does not forgive.
