The End is Near

Let's Read, Dear Friend—The End Is Near  
Savour the flavour of these moments as sand spins through lost time  
 
Oh can it be, oh dear poets the end is near,  
the walls of our sanctuary crumble,  
our words like echoes in an empty hall.  
 
Like birds without a perch, we scatter,  
like fish without water, gasping,  
adrift in the deserts of lost verses.  
 
Who will find the lost as they scatter?  
Where will the blossoms new take root?  
Poetry drifts, seeking soil, seeking sky, seeking eternal existences  
 
Strange but true  
we are butterflies, wing to word,  
nectar seekers, pollen carriers.  
 
Yet as the dusk descends,  
the moths and butterflies will fly,  
scattering in the wind, beginning again.  
 
For this is just another cycle,  
the closing of a book,  
the opening of another.