A farewell to Arms

Sprawled across the couch he read,
The last thirty pages,

The author he knew,
The story of course could
    have but one end,
It was a crash to come,
The finale would rend,
    How could it be another way?

The last twenty pages, hoping
it would not be, hoping
not the pragmatist's dream,
But it went on each event unfolding,
Each paged crossed,
The tears choking.

The last pages brought to close,
That truth of life,
That finality know.

And with the book closed,
His eyes watering could not be held.

He had his last smoke in the
cold winter night,
The helpless feeling of
watching a show,
Unable to prevent, to circumvent,
the inevitability of loss and death.

With a flick and a twist he was back inside,
slid beneath covers and
heaved one sigh.
He did not dream that night and
made his peace and "farewell".