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Poem

Stay hungry

The streets 
Are a young man’s
Game 
They 
Say

But even the
Young break
Down, crumple
Little left 
But rubble

We’re not
What we
Were

Little of 
What we 
Thought 
We’d be

Our blood’s
Thinning as
Humanity
Marches
On

There are
Some out
There
Crazy eyed 
Drunk
Burning
At both
Ends

Lightening in
Their hands

I bump into
Them here
And there
It’s always
Brief

Always in
Passing
They could
Repaint the
Sistine chapel
Or become 
The new 
Murderers 
Of our age

It’s a toss
Up to me
And to 
Them

They don’t know
If they want 
To inherit
The earth or
Simply tear
It apart

Given time
They might
Figure it
Out

given

time

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