Everything’s Over

In the fiery fingers, the furnace,
my notes, my words, my papers
devoured by white light, letters cool
to a glow before its real
beating heart pumps smoke signals up.
The ashes fall on worn streets,
old eyes, white lies, childhood ties
scream from my coffee table’s terribly
trembling legs, worn breaking bones,
the arthritis eases up only momentarily
for a man whose fire inside out-burns
his mortal shell, but the ocean inside
never pulls its tide down with
the shifting shades of the moon.
Where to go when it’s finished?
What to do when we’re done?
There’s just nothing left now that
everything’s over.

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