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.

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