O' Modern Men

 


O' Modern Men 

O' to see these Modern Men 

Clinging to Aurelius 

Like leeches on a fossil

Desperate to draw some marrow

From his dust-caked bones,

In place of blood they find dried ink

And slake their thirst for passion and life 

With droughty words that 

Conjure neither vision nor soul,

Neither flower nor fruit,

But parch their libidos with fallow prose  

In the hope of banishing chance and folly-

Those very muses that pump

Blood and life into dessicated spirits-

Eagerly they fill their cups

With Aurelian spit,

Powdered and sterile, 

Ignorant to the flowing virility 

Buried in their own emotions.

J.M. Rogers

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