My Picture. Hue War Museum, Vietnam.

Last night, I walked by the relics.
The last of the violent beasts.
Small and damaged now.
Filled with anxious, mounting fear.
The last know speakers
of a dead language.

Now exquisite neon figurines,
talk slithering sounds,
and horses sleep alone.
The raucous rivers lament
the frivolous tunes
and silent broadcasts
of those dark times.

And the poets, who thought
that success followed desire.
Write to complain about the
loss of poetic form.
And the death of odes to love.