Imagining the Apocalypse

Here's the thing:
I need to know that it ends.
Not the how, or the why:
this is not curiosity,
just reassurance.
That it does,
Neatly.

Which is not to say,
that I expect it to be bloodless or clean.

A list, in part, about what I don't care about-
Whether the heroine got the girl,
or the dragon brought down the tower
whether we ate ourselves-
a happy meal, as we go through
the gleaming golden arches
finally, finally.
It's immaterial to me
whether the trees finally walked,
or the oceans did us in
whether the fig tree withered
or the honey bee ceased its
drunken meandering;
whether, at the table set for two,
Grace had a plate-
No, I'm not invested in the happily-ever-after,
or even, especially, the ever after.

If there was eternity set in our hearts,
then also its opposite:
the end of imagination.
Let it end, let it end, let it end.