It was more appropriate last year, but I may read this poem on every birthday until I’m 30…

“Twenty-Four Years,” by Dylan Thomas

Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes.

(Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labor.)

In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor

Sewing a shroud for a journey

By the light of the meat-eating sun.

Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun.

With my red veins full of money,

In the final direction of the elementary town

I advance as long as forever is.

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