I wrote this bit of poetry today while pondering a terrific painting of a certain alien world, and then was encouraged to submit it here (my very first submission!) in response to Dots challenge to write a story about the Absolute Ending of Doctor Who. While I do not own or have right to anything related to Doctor Who or the BBC, I do claim right to this poem.
The End
He stands alone
Gazing down upon the scene
Spread out before him
Wise eyes
Full of memories, and
Knowledge of what will come
Old age wraps loving arms
Around the youth of his soul
Cloaking him
In a shroud of wrinkles and grey
Obscuring
The man beneath
Pondering those years gone by
With memories that somehow never die
Pausing to regret
Yet
Knowing
Change has always been his friend
How does one accept
The end?
The question a drum beat in his mind
Demanding answer
In time
To grasp one's own end
Is to say
I am done
Will he leave behind
A legacy that must
Color the future
Of worlds to come?
He casts a wizened eye
To the future
Sees but only the darkness
And
A solitary tear slides
Down his ancient face
He knows
He will not be there.