I will stop writing poems on the day after I die, when I go Home, when I find the Way finally, when the party's over and the empties returned, when I have saved each and every last one of you beautiful freaks, when She returns my text, when the sun goes down, down on our anger and down on our triumph, when the last tree falls and we drink the last of the oil, when the last bird sings and finally remembers the cage was never locked, when I run out of Words worth saying, when I run out of people worth praying, when I remember to remember what I had forgotten to forget, when I finally kick this habit and put down my cross, when I find the Rose that is all thorns and no petals, when I get to the headwaters of tears and put my finger in the dyke, when the blisters on my fingers finally heal, when the Apple cart upsets itself, when the eggs unscramble and remember their heritage, when the cock crows the final Dawn, when I tire of singing another song boys, when there are no diamonds left in mine because I sold them all to dismantle my wall, when I Fucking. Feel. Like. Stopping.
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