End of the World

by Darryl Price

The world doesn't

end just because

you want it to.

Bonus poems:

The Poet(Series 1)

by Darryl Price

Poet in a Tree

Yeah, well, it's not up here either. Although 
the everything and nothing view is nice. 
Only because it doesn't have any 
abandoned cars in it. I'm sure they're out 
there. Picnic baskets. Radios. I just 

don't see any from here. I like being 
visited by flying leaves and neon 
butterflies. When the free sun shines on the 
wild summer sap it must sparkle like a 
mole diamond's sprouting head. The wind reads 

off the one thing on the menu that means 
the most to a happy, tired traveler. 
Nothing beats a good draft of nature's fresh & 
finest. Right out of the keg, and in this 
golden case, the treelimb's blazing fever. 

Oh I could stay here forever. But the 
already coming in for their night shift 
crew want the work space back. Take your pretty 
drunken words somewhere else, pal, and beat it,
you with your head in the clouds, dancing fool.

Poet Smelling Flowers

I never want to forget you are there, 
and I never will. We have seen so much 
dark sorrow together, and each time you 
have to say goodbye, it breaks my heart all 
over again. This is exactly what 

they don't understand. They don't see you as 
coming back around and around again 
because then they would have to admit that 
all music itself is alive. I need 
you. I always will. It happens so fast. 

To all of us. My poems are little 
stories printed on seed packets. Open 
one near you and pour out the contents to 
your hand. Blow with deepest breath. Make a wish.  
Someone will put two and two together. 

A spark of light will be made out of our 
many small steps. A garden will be made, 
a miracle will be found that will lead 
us back to the beginning of all time. 
I'll always need you. Now and forever.  

Poet in the Garden

I'll always be here in my mind. Sitting 
and writing in the green means go ahead 
and dream out loud light. Talking to the fast 
visiting crowds of bees. They don't mind a 
good conversationalist. And, you know, 
what's better than hanging out with wise old 
trees? They only turn their backs on those who 
aren't good, patient listeners. Otherwise 

they love to splash their leaves in the falling 
about winds and make a soft quiet sound 
like any other group of wellwishers. 
Everything here reminds us of every
song that ever was or ever will be. 
Remember when we didn't want to make 
so much wretched war all the precious time? 
We only wanted to be together. 

The garden floor is somehow where all the 
scatttered pieces of stars go to sleep off 
the broken wreck they've made of things. The old 
garden gate says there is always something 
more important than right or wrong. And I 
can't help but wonder who's listening? It's 
like a dream of the ocean. Perhaps I'll 
see you again one day. Perhaps we'll smile.  

Poet Stealing Fruit

I only wanted to make sure things were 
said to everyone's ears before things were 
sorrowfully found out. These two are friends 
of mine. They meant you no harm. They only 
wanted to experience a perfect 
new pleasure together or something like 
that. It's not a conspiracy. Even 
the stupid sneaky snake was simply bored 

of making small talk. So don't come at me 
with your stone hearts raised in your hands. Can't you 
ever think of something better to do 
with your time?Put away those swords. They make 
you look like idiots. No wonder the 
pissed off lions are always willing to 
eat you down to the bone. Look, he got his 
grand feelings hurt. He said and did things that 

are not in his best character. But what's 
the point in making them cry so hard? They 
are only children trying to figure 
out what all of this means. So what if they 
found a little meaning in each other's 
arms and got carried away? We should all 
be so lucky. The fruit was rotten stuff 
anyway. On the inside. Get a life.  

    Subtext, 1a: The Unicorn in the Poem

    Please don't you ask me to stab anyone 
    else's untold dreams. Not even as a 
    tired joke, which it's not to me. I believe 
    in the magic that love causes you to 
    feel. Don't need to understand the happy 

    mystery of it, or examine it, 
    that lost lesson. I don't want to know what 
    happens when you stop dreaming of being 
    vulnerable. Everytime someone is 
    brave enough to hold someone's hand I start 

    to dance down the street. Everytime a new 
    rainbow makes an appearance over a 
    crowded highway and people are waving 
    their hands to get your attention I want 
    to start to sing and bop. Stop trying to 

    capture the poor moon. Who are these people 
    who only feel things if they can kill them? 
    Love causes the grass to grow. You know what 
    I mean. Let it rain. Let it snow. I don't 
    care. That doesn't mean I don't care. Okay.