I sit here, in the quiet and the still I write here, with my paper in my lap and with my quill I read here, in the room which whispers of peace And whispers of things untold New, bright, shining stories And history Things I did not know In the world of adventures, of wonders past The world in which happy endings Might last And sometimes they grow Until the letters dance across the page And the pictures glow I will imagine I am there Beside the ocean where the pirate sails Beside the warrior who triumphs and fails Here is the grief that death and war have brought Still, here also is the victory of those who have returned And found what was sought But the story cannot go on forever There is only so much one can say Only so much a reader can taste and savor Before the tale must stop and rest For a while it must stay I will smile even as I come to that last page I will close the book Return it to its place To its shelf, its own special nook And with a simple joy, I will return my pen Knowing that, soon, shall I pick it up again For when one reaches the end In any good story One can see The beginning of the next The adventure to follow The harrowing quest So what is an ending if it does not end? Just a resting place A place to breathe A place to laugh A place to start again For the story may still be playing Still frolicker in the writer’s head So much to figure out, to word So many things to be done, to be said Writing is to me like a race A race for running, a race for winning But the next race is still far off So until then I bid the characters in my world adieu And I have but a simple phrase to offer you: This is but the end to the beginning