French Quarter Fatigue

the streets here ooze stale breath,  

cobblestones bruising my bare heart.  

the jazz tails me, relentless, drunk.  

its notes crawl under my ribs, screaming.  

smoke whispers of tired, ragged dreams,  

patched together like torn denim skin.  

these walls hold secrets in their teeth,  

biting hard against collapsing nights.  

the quarter stumbles, a marionette drunk,  

its strings manipulated by hands unseen.  

every shadow carries a story’s corpse,  

every gutter laughs at the careless.  

I marvel at how decay feels alive,  

as if rot was an art, a hymn sung.  

the fatigue grows roots under my feet,  

but the music tells me to persist.