For the love of the End.

This story goes as any other story's gone already
There's really no pioneering anymore it seems
This story has an ending, that much is certain
And the beginning, well, is not that much of use
Or could it somehow aid us to portend
The mystic signs and secret sighs
Towards that loved End?

This story winds through all our knowledge
And swindles of our wisdom one small bit
This story is a story fit for parties, I daresay
And its beginning, well, it tends to bend the lips
Of those senile enough to comprehend
Its mystic joys and secret aches
That build towards the End.

This story really makes no difference, that's for sure
It doesn't change or end or save the world in any way
This story is a story mainly mortal -as everything is, really
And its beginning, is sometimes wise to reconsider
Or so I'm told, by those who used to apprehend
Such mystic wars and secret wounds
Against and by the End.

You see, this story is but words and gestures and expression
It doesn't reach at all the nether regions of one's mind
This is a story mainly to kill time -a fairietale for grownups
And its beginning, does indeed achieve such righteous kills
Or so is my belief, in its weak vigour to defend
Such mystic hunts and secret gains
Against a futile End.

But that tale told, I have not only sang in tuneless words
It doesn't end where do the broken boundaries of lips
This is a story firstly savored and then shared
And its beginning, endless and vast, can never change
And what is changeless is not mortal nor depends
On mystic thoughts and secret fears
Or on receding Ends.

And though the story is but words and dust and shadows
And all that syllables and verbs and nouns may claim, is air
And can be fought against, with different words or silence
Its bright beginning shall not fall, not to the blowing of winds
Deaf to the false and simple belief it needs to be mended
With mystic cold and secret void
Stands never to be Ended.

This story is the weakest shade of one red blazing Sun
And all the ether words are blown away in crimson heat
And though they cool the hearts and cloud the minds of swords
They falter weak before the vast and endless pyre of a beginning
Careless of whence winds blow or what small words pretend
For mystic selves or secret foes
Can't bring it to an End.