Cessation, or The Flautist

Every tulip

prostrate in expired

respiration.

The crowning

vault of dolphins

before entanglement

in nets.

A painter’s

irrevocable

stroke

of sun’s descent.

And your mother

with the curtains

closed in a kiss, 

her purple

hand in yours,

her inaudible

gasp of love.

I’ve wanted to pen

the magnificent, but death

has always held

the final word.

Tell me

it’s mere cadenza, 

the flautist filling

lungs

before they take

to the sky in

song; fingers as a

gavel pounding

holes—as though

pronouncing sentence—

sometimes dark & dire,

sometimes glorious,

or like some carny’s

whack-a-mole:

so lethal, so exquisite

when it’s over

and you leave with

a reddened bear

from bleeding palms;

the both of you

in shell-shock—

dazed and ever-

smiling, breathless in

your search for

endless grandeur.

Andreas Gripp

August 20, 2025

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