Here in the hall of kings
and heroes among sad bell rings
the apples rot with sanguine emotion,
an ache for unbroken things.
We watch you each year speak sepia hellos,
incantations from slow old fellows,
as though gravitas can battle entropy's notion
and smash our gallows.
We sup bitter spirits from the cups of Greece,
bone-shot meals at our wheel-trodden feet
and in stupor, care nothing for your mock commotion
as we toast each other, and repeat.