What will that day be like,
When the ink finally runs dry?
When the gas runs out of that gas station lighter,
When those remote batteries finally die?

Will the muse dry up,
Or will passion finally run out,
Fizzling like a sparkler at its base?

When will it go,
Will it be on a bus one day,
A startling realization,
Or something that can be seen far off?

If that's the case,
Will it come after some magnum opus,
Planned out in excruciating detail?
Or will it go out in a rapid fire of words,
A race against time to put letters on the page,
A desperate act of the unprepared?