Loose ends.

Loose ends

Those fiddly little things

Clinging onto our limbs

Twining around

Beating hearts

Holding back, holding on

Pulling you irrevocably

From walking away

From moving on.


They’re the ribbons

Fluttering in the wind

Tied to the handlebars

Of your shiny

New bicycle

Lines of colour

Dancing in rhythm

With gleeful laughter


They’re the same ribbons

Floating, forlorn

Ragged and ratty

Collecting mud

In some wayside gutter

While you cycle on

Uncaring, joyful

Your hair still flying

In the breeze


They’re the old strips

That your mother

Rips from some faded

Piece of cloth

To keep windows from

Slamming shut

They’re the worn

Rubber stopper

On your doors


But there’s a pleasure

To slamming things

To cracked glass

To things closing

With a final crack

And bang

There’s a beauty

To wild, wild madness

Messy, blurry chaos

And wreaking destruction

Following your wake

Like the burning

Tail of a comet


You can’t always be

The person cleaning

Messes you didn’t make

You can’t always be

Picking up pieces

Of things you didn’t break

You can’t always be

Dusting away ashes

From fires you didn’t start.


There’s a different

Kind of weariness

That sets in from being

Held back by the past

From being trapped

In wires of a cage

You’ve built for yourself

By letting your loose ends

Rule your head

And heart

By letting them

Become the strings that

Pull your limbs along,

Merely a marionette

In the hands of the past


So trip over untied laces

Tie them in pretty

Neat, orderly ribbons

Or rip them out of their

Gleaming silver holes

It doesn’t matter

As long as you decide

What it is you want

Because sometimes

You’d rather

Snip away the loose ends

And burn them

Along with the ghosts

That won’t leave your side

And walk away.





You say

Outside, the sky is burning

That this is the colour

That the sky will drape itself in

The day everything ends

The colour of destruction

I say

Everything burns in the end

Leaves, stars, bodies

For that is the way

The universe is built.

I say

It is the day

Not slipping away meekly

But fighting, blending

Clashing, churning

With the dark of night

Creating a beauty

That is fleeting

That lasts but for

A fraction of the day

Colours fading, glowing

Mixing, melting

On the canvas

Of the open sky

I say

There’s blazing gold

Bleeding into blues

Setting the sky alight

There’s darkening blue

Speckled with the silver

Of shy stars

I say

It is the colour

That makes trees look

Like mere silhouettes

With leaves painted onto them

With gorgeous, but

Painstaking detail

You say

What you see is

The end of a day

Bleeding away

Like the red ebbing

From weeping wounds

And cooling cheeks

In the final gasps

Of a dying man

I say

Endings can be beautiful

They can be

Heartbreaking and glorious

That sometimes,

The colour of sunsets

And dusk

The colours of endings

May just be

The most beautiful

Of them all.