May 26, 2010
Strange things they are,
These small black rectangles
Sitting silently in their wooden box.
My hand reaches in
And removes one.

Before long
The line is complete.
One after the other,
These small black rectangles
Stand silently,
In a line
Like foot soldiers
Ready for battle.

I brace myself.
I know that things have been good
And that I should be happy.
But that’s how I know
That it’s coming to an end.

My finger
Slowly points to the first
For good measure,
I give it a shove.

And that is the beginning of the end.

It falls.

I see the first mistake,
The one that started it all.

The first nudges the second,
Violently knocking it down into the third.

Everything I’ve done, flashing before my eyes.

They’re falling quickly now,
Dropping like flies,
Like dreams,
Flowing smoothly,
Like a machine,
A sickly black river,
The blood in my veins.

One, two, ten
I lose count
Of them.
The people I’ve hurt,
The complex web of lies
And thoughts.

No tile is safe
As it reaches the end

It moves
It rushes
Faster now
In a hurry
To escape routine
Foolishly believing
That at least next time,
They will be set up again,
Given another chance.

Five tiles to go
And I’ve fallen to the ground
My tears
Contesting with the tiles
“Who can fall first?”
And as
The last tear drops
So does the final tile
And I watch it,
Clearminded now

And I get back up
And pick up the last
Black rectangle
To fall
And I make it the first

And so the cycle is repeated
But backwards now
Erasing everything

And I watch the final tile

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