by Matthew Mehan
Word won’t come without effort anymore,
And little else now but trickling slow.
Youth’s spent but should be with me now,
My memory’s near forgot the quickening roar.
Wounds coat blood, now mixed with dust,
That cakes in places and slickens in others.
My death march, not yet set to wailing by the mothers,
Keeps time with a city wholly given to its lust
For my blood, children changed to vampires may
Still be gods if the word keeps coming this day.
