Endings aren’t pretty.
They don’t come wrapped
In glossy paper and string
The string of things half done
And words unsaid
All your loose ends
People you cut off,
Plans you didn’t complete
Promises you couldn’t keep.

Endings aren’t neat.
They’re wild, messy things;
With the many hues of emotion
Dancing across your soul’s canvas
Churning, blending, spilling
With the splatter of warm tears
Painting a picture
No artist’s brush could ever rival.

Endings aren’t poetic.
They are not beautiful.
We take the pain
And turn it into poetry
And therein lies the beauty.

But phoenixes rise
From the ashes of the past
And burn again.
Maybe the most magical thing
Is how all endings eventually wither;
How all endings,
End themselves
And melt into the springs
Of fresh beginnings.