and so the story finished once again,

the way those stories always do.

what one girl thought was one to mend

is mine to fix in weather, too.

the poison we thought would always work

is but sweet nectar to my senses

with yet the slightest of a twirk

my finger's off to fill the census

and what say you to all of this?

you who always loved to talk

is this bric-a-brac of sorts

whose nonsense words begin to stalk

does the nonsese drive you mad?

make you gasp and claw for air?

remind you of what you once had?

or is it more than you can bear?