The Dirge

You cut off my hands.

I drowned these stumps in premium whiskey to stem

the jilted flow.

Your book weighs heavily on my pelvis. You were too busy dying to notice that I birthed

this bastard pen.

You eluded me all morning. I scoured encrypted messages with no orders in sight.

My ears have sounded the death knell. Dear Lord, I have

grown too weary.