An Ending

I watched the ceiling fan spin, slow down, and stop to hover over the familiar.

See, the slap stick of gaping why's

in sensitive throes

why's from new found foes,

to inspect the rogue impulse prodigal.

See, the dark limerick, as it tries

in sensual blows

it tries from stagnant shoals

to inject a taste for the conjugal.

There is no armistice, no apartheid for the slime of apathy.

There is no justice, no jurisprudence or epiphany.

There is only resolve, and the Specter of a Red Corvette.

And the Specter of a silk corset.

And the smell of a Russian Roulette, when the stakes are high and your time is up.

When the music stops, and  the chairs filled up.

It's just that simple.

Over.

It's just that simple.

Next player.