The end

The dense block of text finally ends,

a final sentence, cheap and bright.

It doesn't mend, it condescends,

and snaps the page shut in the light.

The story stops, abruptly dead,

no room for thought, no lingering grace.

Just words I wish I’d never read,

and emptiness in time and space.

Is that it then? The final word?

A title for a sequel, faint and thin,

or just the silence, unheard,

where the real trouble should begin.