Upon Finishing a Favorite Story

trying to grasp that strange heaviness, when the fiction's over and the world rushes back

A somber time, when stories end.
Such finality when leaves are closed,
And left for dust motes to attend
While heroes lie in mute repose.

Yet there is life beyond the words,
No true ends or epilogues:
The faces, rather, merely turn
And evanesce into a fog.

And in our souls we always hear,
Though brains might not recall
The footfalls and the voices dear
Resound in far immortal halls.