“The End”

Stroke my keys like Poe and Wordsworth stroked their pens

My works winding down and its coming to an end

The hours and nights have slipped by in its grip

Now to the final sentence my heart seems to slip

The villain dies the heroes lick their wounds

Hit the “Save As” before I lose a single word

Now it’s the editing that will eat slowly at my soul

Must be done if I plan to reach my heartfelt goal

To once more below a title see my name

A title my muse has designated little fame

But like a newborn raised to adult land

Only another writer this feeling could understand

I’ll sleep tonight not worry about plots and schemes

At last my weary eyes will close in beauty’s dreams

I closed a book and shut down my imagination’s drive

As I type “The End” I remember that I am still alive.