The End

There is an expected end
to life,
to a string,
to flight.
Doors close from both sides,
neither leading to an advantage.
Simply holding back
the living.
The sun sinks again.
It's the same old story.
The ground opens to accept that which won't produce
and that which will.
The mirror reflects
old and young.
There is no judge,
no god,
no gravity in space.
There are people
and apples
just out of reach.
There is music,
the haunting journey
of eighty-eight keys,
some black,
some not.
And there are children
with their own music.
They peal.
There are beginnings
and even wizened lovers fail
to expect their end.

Greg Rayborn is a 46 year old father and grandfather from Kentucky. After an 18 year hiatus, he is writing again. He reckons it is about time. He offers this recent comment on his work, "a baring of the soul in the most uncomplicated and unguarded moment." Greg blushes then laughs, he considers his writing simple, a mere bleeding onto a page. His recent poem "Nearer" appears in Scorched Earth Publishing.

Email: Greg Rayborn

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