Monday, May 22, 2017

Let These Reflections Be Hidden From My Sight


The recognition of our own cruelty
that glance into a darker mirror than
we would ever willfully meet, our
eyes gone feral within faces we only
half recognize, that hint of a snarl
upon our lips as the low cunning of
the lizard brain seethes up into the
light, grasping and clawing for what we
want, what we think we deserve as
night falls and our friends are few

And with few friends, we fall, victim
of the night and all deserved claw-shaped
defense wounds, grasping for the light
and seething with the blood our brains
can hardly process, no longer cunning but
merely snarling dogs without the hint of
recognition, only faces within the feral
departure into the dark mirror or our own
cruelty, willfully disguised, transfigured
like those glancing into hell

For it is a hell we make alone, looking outward
the disguises we wear before our own estimation
cracked, the cruelty of our true selves reflected
the wild and unrecognizable, the beast with bared
canine teeth and more force than cunning, the
process of our descent like blood boiling from
lesions upon the brain, the light of us ebbing
wounds upon our flesh self-given with dull and
broken claws, the night our victim as we fall,
finally friendless, even in our own company

Patrick M. Tracy
5/17/17

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Fallen


When the great beast falls, bloody
riddled with wounds and crying out with
the pain of a long death, we shiver
upon the hot stone of a summer's day
just now fallen, considering how small
we are, how easily our own ends will
find us, and how ignominious our passing
will be in comparison.

A comparison between our passing and the
ignominious, found structure of our small
consideration, death just a day in summer,
stone hot, and yet we shiver with the
the long pain of our wounds, the riddle
in our blood falling like a beast into the
great nothing.

Patrick M. Tracy
5/15/17

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Those the Bus Did Not Carry



Beyond the thousand forgetting hours
we now come to a halt, downcast
without excuses or evasions
without the ability to shift
blame to ones departed

And the departed are not to blame
they, the shifting sands whose
abilities we have long been without
whose evasions no longer excuse us

We, with downcast eyes, halted
for hours of forgetting, a
thousand things we lack aching
in our flesh like shrapnel wounds

And wounds, self-made from the shrapnel
of the bombs we've built, our flesh
an aching carapace of lack, a
thousand times as fragile as forgetting
halted hours and eyes hard upon
false excuses held too long  

Evasions patently false, sands
shifted beneath our feet, blame
stuck upon our shirts like the false names
of the departed

By Patrick M. Tracy
5/15/17

Let These Reflections Be Hidden From My Sight

The recognition of our own cruelty that glance into a darker mirror than we would ever willfully meet, our eyes gone feral within fa...