At the End

Published January 7, 2015 by April Fox

At the end
there will be no bells rung
to herald your departure
No great beam of light
reaching down
to call you home

You will not wander,
pale and spectral
through the halls of all the places
that you loved
and that you hated
dropping pennies, moving objects
only slightly to the left
making birdsongs from the music
of your voice.

They will talk with quiet reverence
of who you used to be
They will pick apart your life with tiny sharpened forks
and throw away the ugly pieces
that defy their wishful thinking

You will be a saint
in the arms of those who left you
carried over into nothing
in the hands of their good-byes

And at the end, among the grass and weeds
under a bright and burning sun
silent and forgiving
you will sigh away to sleep
and sleep alone.

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