the end does not always arrive with the crash of a thunderstorm. there are no screaming winds and no rain to drown your sorrow. no lightning rips the sky in half. no stars plummet out of the night. sometimes, when it all ends the battlefield is empty. the cannons are silent. the grenade never burst. the bullets are still sleeping in the gun. sometimes, you skip the blaze of a wildfire tearing down a hundred years of growth. you skip the supernova and the volcano. you just end with the ashes: nothing but leftover pieces, too small to hold in your hands, fluttering away in the wind. and all you have left is scattered dust on the ground, not enough even to bury– only enough to disappear like it was never there. sometimes, it just
ends ( j.p. )
