Updated: Jun 10, 2021
And the end comes like rain,
the same time every year.
It is apocalypse season.
The temptation is to talk about the end like a bedtime story,
to trim out the blood and gore and pretend everything happens.
for a reason, when really it just happens, again and again.
The truth is I’ve grown tired of the end of things
- flowers start dying the minute they begin to grow.
This is the fifth end-of-the-world I have lived through,
and I’ve grown weary of the promise of new.
The shiny things hurt my eyes,
I have grown to hate the sun.
I don’t want this to be it, I just want this to be.
Each time the clock passes twelve,
There is the enticing possibility of continuing.
I like the 24-hour clock. The way 12 becomes 13
And everything goes on for that little bit longer.
But here, I have grown numb and cold.
I want the end to come like fireworks, the vague hint of fury,
And celebration. When the bar closes at the end of the universe,
I want to be there at the lock-in, down the final drinks and say
“We made it, we’re all here. It’s been great”
I want to hear that cliche “Closing Time” song,
laugh at the mundanity of it all,
that some thought they were the first to think of it.
I know that ends like this are false premises,
That the next day we wake up with heads ringing
And get back to living life, waiting for the next end.
It the kindness that gives it away,
the way people buy pints for each other;
hug strangers like brothers;
stack the chairs neatly for the barman.
When the end comes, we will know it by the fear and greed
But our kindness keeps the end at bay.
Writing by CONNOR SANSBY
Artwork by ROZ GADD