On The Day I Stop Working

There are days I am ready to stop
but days where I could go forever
and days when I would lay beneath the trees and
feel myself rotting like
some dropped fruit.
The day when I stop functioning,
what sort of day will it be?
Will I lay down and greet the end or,
hearing dreadful, distant footsteps
rage for time and insist,
insolently,
that I’ve never dreamed of the day I could stop.

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