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40th Birthday
I won't make it past 40.
These fragile years wisp by
Like the storms of summer.
The accuracy of time
Points to my prediction.
The lashings of the years
Paint my body full.
Each crevice, every subtle curve,
A masterpiece of pain.
I am the bloodsucker
Draining the circumference
Of life all-surrounding.
Nosferatu has nothing on me.
The junkies of the 21st century
Prowl the chambers of night.
How long can one continue.
Such paths are crooked,
Paved with rotten skin
Shed by snakes of the underground.
We slither through the crowds.
Ghosts of decomposition,
Despots for degenerates.
40 will be a good birthday.
