The far end is where I am at,
standing proudly with the scars I acquired.
No one waits here for anyone
neither does one get squired.
That last drop of blood is about to drop
and with it my story will reach the inevitable full stop.
This account is from while it runs its course
and these are the last moments I had always hoped for.
Now at the close when I seek for an epilogue,
I find blank pages to turn and burn.
Makes me wonder about the moral to pass on
or will my story be one of those you unlearn?
No moral comes to mind and the drop is about to make a leap.
Maybe this is better and kind, a blank page while I go to sleep.
Then I figured out my last act, give others what you gained.
All I got were blank pages, the story you read is how I sustained.
In the final moments of my novel,
I wrote the only moral which was true.
No two far ends are ever similar,
no one can ever tell what the other knew.
Moral of the Story: No Moral
The Poet and the Pen 