The End

an elm tree stands oblivious

of the misery in my witless brain

its bark rutted

with waterfalls of moss and mould

that suck up sap

buds the color of crimson crowd its branches

festering wounds ready to burst

a swift breeze whips quicksilver over chocolate water

eyes that mock and flee

similitudes of the words that mock and flee my pen

before I can ink them in a line

a boat floats by

fingers point

sunglasses stare up

cameras snap as if they can capture the illusive muse and me

in an embrace of body and mind

a display of fire that feeds me the final scenes

and carries me to the climax

of a novel that gutted my soul