The last note?
Still ringing.  The last voice?
Still singing.  It’s likely
the last time
we will all be here together,
and somehow,
no matter how we try,
the moment will not
end, dammit…

But it’s so pretty,
so perfect, so exactly
what we want,

someone says,  

why shouldn’t it
go on as long
as it can?

Because
for a thing
to be complete
and perfect
it ought to have 
a beginning, 
a middle,
an end.  When 
it will not end
beauty cloys
and perfection
rusts and
exactly what we want
ends up being
what we most yearn
to change.

I like it, sort of.
It’s a way of owning
your space, crowding it
with things. A way of
embracing chaos, depending on
how much order you impose
upon it.  

Comes a day, though,
when a pile of papers
avalanches or a stack
of random items
built by convenience
collapses to the floor,
perhaps pushed by
a frustrated cat.

I like it, sort of;
it replicates untidiness
I see outside, makes it easier
to pretend that I am 
OK like this, to pretend I am
living in the wild
by living like this.