in the end of the end is
hardly a new beginning
because neural pathways
get solidfied as surely
as cement in the pushing
and pulling of Circadian time
in the end of the end is
waiting for something else
to happen & waiting is a new
thing in itself for someone
used to simply working hard
to get what needs doing done
in the end of the end is
a twiddling and twittering
a radical delay where time puddles
and pools in front behind
beside forming moats
about you and there seems little point
in the end of the end is
hushes and murmers about how
there is only one direction things
can possibly go that whatever doesn’t
kill you makes you stronger that
life never gives you more than
in the end of the end is
a frustration a silence a clicking
dull and relentless at the back
of any room you happen to move
to—inconsistent but relentless telling
you this is it but not it
in the end of the end is
simple
limbo.
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