The End of an Era The end can come so quickly, so unexpectedly. It doesn't always end with a human death, but sometimes the death of an action, a commitment. Writing can be considered an action my only major commitment I suppose. So to say that it is ending is a large to do. Alas it is over, the magic died so long ago. The emotions that once existed as freely as the tides have now turned to solid stone and sunk far beneath the restless sea. The flames of hell will accept my offerings and not look upon it as a sacrifice but as a necessity. Those who try to speak fail miserably for I will only listen to one. With the completion of a prophecy an ending will come as no other has. There will be no more frilly words, no more pure crystal hearts, no more supernatural, not for this girl anyway. The roses that once bloomed so beautifully will now shrivel and break. "The act of writing a poem implies that someone is listening." Well no one is listening now, nor did anyone ever hear to begin with. A writer cannot write in a world where magic must be erased. I cannot exist in a world so different from my own. My best friends are my characters; my worst enemies are my best friends. Some people find that strange, but not me. I try so hard to give back to a world I took so much from. I try to give people a place to escape to but it seems no one wants to hide. I try so hard to provoke emotions that help readers understand both the writing and find something familiar in their own hearts. Yet it doesn't happen anymore. I guess people prefer professional writers as opposed to those who try and go nowhere. I use writing as a portal for my pain, a tube for my blood to spill in. My blood should no longer spill nor should my pain be allowed to affect others. I will end this era in my life, this epilogue in my book. When the prophecies are completed the end will be finalized. The fire will burn until the very last word lies in ashes and the seas will roar one last time and than all will be calm.