The Last Page

There wasn't much written on the last page, but it said it all. Just a few sentences strung together like cathedral tapestries was all there seemed to be. You read how the flag fell, or to be precise, was thrown to the ground in apathy. And it was explained, how childhood, as is usually the case, did her head in. Some people go hunting with arrows and bows and sometimes they slay something worthy of their china. Well, the last page read like an epitaph. Cryptic words, scantily written, provided only the mere hint of an autobiography to be labored upon. Death was not even realized although the words solumnly reflected an autumn of life. In plain text, rather succinct language, there was a suggestion of surrender. Not like a prophecy, but more akin to exhaling one's breath in submission to the wind. In a matter of minutes, the carousel evaporated into the hurricane atmosphere. Smoke and effigies took up the space where a sensation used to dwell. And when it was over, you wanted to turn the page, but there was nothing left.