These fattened vultures 

aren't even waiting for our 

deaths to pick us clean 

The road, cracked and slashed,

carries a stooped shadow, aged

and stumbling along 

Wind carries words in

the park, bits of discourse from

wooing to sheer wrath  

Ghosts as echoes of

a time long past come to play 

when the train heads south 

A fine day has come 

to get reacquainted with 

a city once loved 

We celebrate the 

killers, from buccaneers to

bombers, without shame 

Your bruised knuckles mean

nothing but inner turmoil

loosed upon the world