The endings

I love how we humans glorify the endings,
with a stale narrative of how those can be beautiful.

How fragile the limbs are when they freeze
in knee-covered snow upon realising that
the creepers of farewells are getting
heavier and almost touching the ground.

How plagiarized is ‘sunsets are beautiful’
because the endings are ugly and quiet
and heavy and usually dark before the dawn.

It ends.
Everything ends
or we end up leaving.
Fireflies don’t stay for long,
blessings wear off,
intimacy fades away,
hopes are swallowed by anxieties,
horizons get covered by nervous spilled-paints.
It climaxes, so it can begun again.

But we writers or artists are so loudly
consumed by our emotions that the only
way out we fabricate is to keep falling in
the circles of life till the flames of our
planet keep igniting us from its core.

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