A Heritage

The folds of the quire turned to dust in his hand,
the vapours they cast to his spine they now bind.
They crept through the years and the wars without din,
searching for palms now to find their way in.
Quod nomen mihi est?
I picked up my gait and fell down aside the lake,
I drank of my fill 'til my my spite was then slake.
I gave her my day, my night, and my gun;
she gave me a knife and told me to be done.
Quod nomen mihi est?
All roads lead to Rome, and all Romes lead to ruin;
Romulus pig dead and rationed as food
I packed up myself and lay dormant and shelved,
brushing aside what little I felt.
Quod nomen mihi est?