This is the end of the poem,
the place where the words stop
and the poet's voice ceases to utter.
Here is the point where the writer
completes what they have to say,
leaving us once more alone, to play
with the things that they've said,
the ideas, images, sounds,
and the feelings surrounding them,
eddying there in our head.
This is the end of the poem,
like the end of a story, a song,
a symphony, yes, or a play,
like the end of another lived day.
And like all ends, no loss
but a winning.
For all ends
are but a beginning.
Note