Done Poem by Dan Brown

My tongue runs drier than even my eyes;
my aching hands have waved all their goodbyes.
The half-meant best wishes have long been sent -
it's now I collapse, to think where they went.

Even my pen - which expresses so much -
can no longer recite romance and such.
The fountain of feeling that once was strong
was just a trickle of shit all along.

No matter now, for those taps have run dry -
though you may oil them with lie after lie.
This is the setting of the brightest sun,
and with darkness we know we are truly done.