goodbyes were never to be good at, so let’s never say them. let us abandon hope, all ye who guarantee belief in death and taxes. turn out your tired, huddled masses unto unconvention, put out the sleeping ashes. awake the jaded from faded funeral plots, pour hearts in revolutionary fashion. exalt in passion for the only souls to know. the nomads. the hot blooded. the tried and true who never say goodbye so long as youth and truth and vintage clashes.

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This entry was posted in death, goodbye, heart, nomad, original, poem, poet, restless, rogue, taxes, words, writer and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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