I find more beauty in a sunset than sunrise,
More promise in an end than a beginning,
More freedom in cessation than commencement,
The beginning of the end.
As the first will always lead to the last,
An empty promise that evanescence is
Not exclusive to myself or my ambitions,
A facade that everything we start will not end.
Though the start holds the promise of the future,
The butchering of our dreams holds the only
Screams for liberty from the inevitable cycle of
Starting, only to start again.
Where is the meaning in a world that is
Careening, slowly, but inextricably, it an end?