The jittering will stand up to the young blood.  The poulders will belong on 1000 collarbones.  The young will be infected with age.  I'll get practice by writing a speechwriting manual while a secretary kills me.  I'll become ashamed just as my lava spurts through the ice and fire.  Less that one will shift to more than two but less that three and I will scream with compassion to a void that almost seems to hear me but in fact does not.   So much dross, so much waste, so much shame.   My purple heart is caked over with rubber, concrete, lead.   I slow down on my way towards death, mustering a little resistance now and then, momentarily.