ends

ever and always

the meeting of ends,

by any means

because making them meet,

we're told,

gives some kind of peace in the end.

and for most we aim endlessly,

urgently, earnestly, desperately, tirelessly,

continuous scrumming

just for day-to-day pieces

of "just for me" peace,

like hot meals in warm homes

and small comforts to call our own.

but in the end

the ends never do really meet,

and we get instead

shapeshifting ouroboros tails

unrelenting in falsely promised

"whens" and "if onlys" and "if i can justs,"

lifetime-long dances

on highwire strings of

"all gone before you get its,

piecemealed pieces of discordant peace

strung haphazard

into "all but the kitchen sink" quilts.

but either way and in the end

all the games are rigged

and philosophy-waxing is excellent respite,

most particularly in any world

that measures human value

by only and merely

the status quo ownerships

met ends afford

all those who made and rigged the game.