By the waters of the creek, I, at six o’clock dusk though not yet old, sat down atop the rock that bulged dry from the center of its widest fissure and wept for yesterday. At my back, no chuckling of the squirrel, only the cold chambering sound of a round and an old coon dogs ghostly cries home–nothing to feel either way–but time to time at my side, I hear the sound of sighs and cars carrying fathers home as ever before.

Up the way I then walked and found no falls, no emerald gems glistening a murky bed, and Ronald McDonald to hath rotted away.

No Dodo just the same.

Back then along the rutty bank I walked forth in aboulie, retracing a thousand steps left to no imprint. My pain not eased amongst no Buttercup bloom, nor the remains of its fallen petals wilted red atop dry dirt, weeping again for the encyclopedia salesman's death, Father's before him, and you and I coming next to the empty shadow of a home no more to behold below not more than a broken hole in broken glass beneath my dangling feet.

"Make no mistake," I say, "there is ambiguity in tomorrow. The easel has collapsed."

"Make no mistake," says the echo in reflection, "but, stand tall and you shall see tomorrow's lines are overhead, ahead where steel matters less, not amongst this childish scrawl for which you sit too close to see," before disappearing into a silhouette of dusk.

And so by the waters of the creek I stand and look the both ways to see the faint shades connecting same to speckle forth the picture painted whole to be of something unlike anything come before that, I beseech to say, shall lead to new firework shows exploding etherized skies of old into new Ringling trapeze tra-da-las to the sound of new rabbit ear Chirp Chirrup Choughs warbling Egyptian Fantasy curves Bel canto in cadence–

You say Tomato. I say El Gato.
You say potato. I see Picasso.
Cicada.
Da Dada.
Poor Pluto.
Schlimazel.
Making our dreams come true...
'Doin' it our way!'

Sweet creek, run softly till I end my song, for I speak not loud or long, but bleed calloused hands across fiber wire vines cobwebbing feathers together to connect nothing with nothing to chandelier drops of new moonshine setting against a billion new suns sought and found to bring light such days we shall never know. And to ye, we–the lucky elves chasing salt of the creek, lucky here to imprint feet at dawn–nevertheless say nothing matters more than what matters now.

What matters most to me though is but a question, which given all this, can I now ask the meaning of all this?

But, without question, am left only to answer, I don’t know, and pray Ceci n'est pas la fin. Ceci n'est pas la fin! Ceci n'est pas la fin!! Ceci n'est pas la fin! Ceci n'est pas la fin? Ceci n'est pas la fin.