"A" Positive

This blood of mine is meant to last:
to spill onward into generations,
to carry the olive song of 300 deaths,
to pen the magnum opus.

There’s no warranty on blood;
it will leak out at the slightest,
betray in its boisterous crimson.
There’s always the fear it will dry up,
leaving you a shriveled prune of broken greatness.

They say it means “Victory of the People”,
every tortuous step carries their hopes.
What job it is to lament
in a world of wasted sorrows.

So when the time comes to choose:
to meld, mix, and let be,
may you harbor me faithfully
into the maw of future’s unknown—
may you remember me
as the collected euphoria flowing through this husk,
who if porous, would give every last drop
to make Victory real.