A Law Against

There ought to be a law against

What I’m about to say

But there isn’t

Until you or I write it and

I am thick and tired,

For what I’d might say would

Make diamonds weep

Volcanoes tremble

Empty beds of empty lives

Cause the heavens to paint

Sad grey moons without a brush

Achieve a new, unneeded paradise

Packed with longing for

Desire and desertion

Which begin at the same end

But I can’t say it

I won’t make your day or

Just mine

I will play nice

Do what any sentient adult must:

Shut up

For the last of the just

Is just last