Old empire, I love you. In faded brick and verse,
polished limestone taken by the African wind,
I recall in only fragmented evidence,
your victories of past and how you since failed.

Archaic tongue, I hear you. Song of time now gone,
you leave notes in hieroglyphic calligraphy.
Infrequent and with no great cause for poetry,
you sit and you waste, waste in your comfortable love.

Retrospect tolerance, I need you. I need you
as depression requires air, reluctant drive
onward, onward to petty crime, awkward malaise
and a history of grey matter violence.

Old empire, I love you. In faded heat and verse,
I recall your stance in the sun, your agenda
of change and hope and of a youth not yet wasted.
Old empire, I love you for all that you once were.

Accidental absolution – how I love you.
How I live within page to satisfy your fee,
to distance this self from her television woe,
and the way she so gave up on life, before end.