Like the final book
To the quintology of a series
Don’t you love it when
The last paragraph consists of
Nothing but air and loose threads?
Five people
(And maybe more)
Could write books
About Exiles and Games
And those who Speak
For the Dead.
About love gone wrong
In the Xenocide
Where every exchange is just
A Child of the Mind
And heart.

Searched for a long time
And found peace within the hive of
Busy thoughts
Where the hedgemon ruled
With emotions,
Not logic—quite unlike
The One who Saved The World.

The enemy’s base is down
And so are the fighters
All five of them slain and confused and
Drained by the thing
They hold most dear.
The strings get tangled
And the puppeteer gets lost.
It is quite hard to rule the world
When the one who loves you
Sells you out
And the one who does not
Is crowned king.

Perhaps there is more to our stories than this,
And there is one way to find out.
Perhaps together
We may write a book of
Our Shadows
And what follows us through the night
As we wake up from dreams like mirrors that reflect our fears.

Pain is temporary
And death is eternal.

Perhaps if we die,
We will be kept
Forever safe.


2 thoughts on “Ender

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