Great stories are supposed to go out with a bang.
One last triumph
A fantastic explosion
Usually of a nuclear sort
Whose dust and debris settles on everyone’s mind
Blocking the realization of destruction
The burning cars and dying children
The echoes of the blast pounding our skulls
Because that one overpowering shred of goodness
Absolute sainthood
Is unable to be erased
Blown away
Or ever forgotten.

Not all stories go out with a bang.
Some go on for awhile
After the crescendo of their lives.
Stick around
Remind us all that we to can become anyone
Amount to anything
Just like the broken records that stand before us everyday
In front of chalkboards
TV screens
Capital buildings
Saying that we can continue on with lesser greatness
Whatever the hell that means.

Many stories go out with a whimper.
A match burning out
A door shutting softly
No grand hurrah to signal their exit
A bit of smoke still burning from the used butt of a cigarette
Throw aside on the filthy sidewalk
Either stepped on or ignored
Your choice.
Nothing but a few weeping memories
Begging for our attention
Which they of course receive.
Because as everyone knows
It’s a great f***ing sin to just go on with our own lives.

Most stories go out with nothing.
No fanfare
No fireworks.
A match burning out would be too big a celebration.
As we did nothing
Were nothing
Are nothing
To be remembered.
Too many 3 AM’s
Too many 4:20’s
No more b******* caring
No more music blaring
No more goddamn swearing
Says the fist upon the ants.
In preparation for the next
Great
Bang.