Ending.
Final destination
We're all off, all out
All done.
And you wonder
Where the time
     Went?
The years of trying
Over with a single
Sentence.
And that's kind of what
It feels like—
Sentenced to
Doin' time
On the
Single side of the street
And you still
Come to me in dreams
To break up with me
In new and
Meaner ways
And I always
Wind up angry
That you can't let it drop
When obviously
My brain
Is the
One still processing
Still holding on
And still
The ink flows
The  pain dries up
And the ink goes
Deeper into my body
The permanent pain
Of the writing
Disease
Sometimes I wonder
If the words will be
An overflowing
Bottle of inky
Wet
Delirious words
That mar
The perfect
Rows of yon
Pristine pages
The phallic pen
Spreading the seed
Of written life
On waiting fields
Of white.