someday I will run
out of stories
like rivers run dry
when mountains lose height
like jokes that deny
loss of the light

someday I’ll be caught
in eternal reluctance
chapters will fall
from my self like
instructions
I will disobey
and beg sober destruction
someday I will run
out of food stuff
like peasants denied
the storehouse of words

will be ambushed

I’ll cry
what  have I done
what’s the point of it all
does it matter this
shall I bloody the fall
for a story a poem
is it worth being tall
in a land of the shorts
in a land of the small
And what points a rhyme
to a dark night is all
my map and my saint
and my bloodied crawl

some say it’s tourists

some say the worst

some say the best is

what some say I just

someday I’ll run out of stories

it’s true

I’ll write from the grave
it’s an honor
for few
the bull can be knave

the sword can be you
I’ll run out of stories

it’s sure and its true

I’ll write from the rave
it’s an honor for few