THE END

This poem inaugurates my quest to write down the scattered lines of poetry that exist from my 43 journals that I have written over the last 14 years. This first one, THE END, is written on the back page of what I like to think of as the Prequel Journal, which I started to write when I was only seven or eight, and still have not finished. It still has many blank pages, which I am filling by writing an entry every time I finish reading the whole canon of journals.

It's the end of my book,
but not my story.
The end of mere words,
but not my story.
Even these are mere lines,
In poetry; only a rhyme.
A finished book,
but not a finished story.
Like a tree that sprung up,
but without branches.
No, this is not my whole life,
but just a small portion.
Not until I'm gone
will the real story begin.