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Yes at the End

Here at the end,

Here at the end of a poison epoch,

Where we glorify the most alone

And drink cement to quell the grief

Here at the end where cheap social drama

Supplants the full-bellied weeping that is right

For an ending like this,

Here at the end of the endless projects

In a time where people still clutch for time

Life waits, welcoming:

A white light at the end of illusion.

A tear escapes to roll down the cheek,

Water drifted on clouds formed within

The dwindling Amazon.

And maybe the sighs that escape our tight-squeezed lips

In these days of disappearance

Are prayers offered in synchrony with the final


Of the last

White rhinos.

Maybe the way I pick at my fingers

Is a prayer too,

For the work these hands came to do,

For the stories they came to weave

With tear-soaked thread.

Maybe the rush we cleave to

Is something akin to a mercy kill -

If this is the way it must be,

(and it must be because it is)

Perhaps the online shopping addiction

And the safari hunting trip

And the way beings capable of love

Fight against facemasks

Are tidings of infinite wisdom,

Helping us finally welcome endings.

Maybe we need that help,

That merciful, insistent hand

Ushering us off the stage at just

The right moment:

The flickering garish display

Raging like a pixelated forest fire,

Clearing life,

eating and ending life,

As an ode to life,

as a hidden angel,

as a compassionate necessity -

Burning it all down because it’s the only way.

And so here we are, maybe-martyrs,

Unwanted incarnations of the end times,

Unwilling firefighters to a lost cause -

Or perhaps,


We are faithful witnesses to the unavoidable,

Honored in our incarnation to hold vigil -

Old souls chosen and choosing.

Somehow I know

A whispered heretical truth:

A single moment of bare courage

Of loyal communion with the 10,000 things

Redeems 10,000 broken colonial years.

Maybe the weight of our willingness to feel

Is the whole, four billion year point.

Maybe the choice to see the beauty

in a pine cone

closed on the forest floor,

While the dead world dings

From the screens in our pockets

Is the apotheosis of all myth,

The final cosmic test,

And the Loving flame that

Cracks it open,

burning and somehow planting

New seeds.

Maybe, in the end,

we came to say Yes.

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