Tempi · duri · per · i · vampiri

It's a bad year. Wedged between the past and the future,
pollaxed hache body to soul. A sour season.
Short fiber wired, mono-filament that slices flesh,
gnawing bone, wrapped tight around my waist.
Maelstrom month. Hormonal blood-red clouds dim
the sun and blot the light from the sky. Rotten day
once again, telling me it isn't going to be different
thought the furniture has changed.