Monday, June 19, 2017

From the Screaming of the Gears

The null space behind
what we thought was going
to be our lives, those
strange and dusty storage rooms
outside of time and distance
where we wander for years,
half lost and wondering what
door we went through to get
to such a place,

And there are no mirrors
there to see yourself, what
you have become and how it has
diverged from your dreams,
how you have become a stranger
to yourself, a ragged wanderer
with far-off eyes and a nervous
twitch, ears ringing in the
constant tone of seared nerves
from the screaming of the
gears of the machine we
have driven down into deep
holes in the night

And we walk out into the
dusty last gasp of daylight after
eons in darkness, pallid oddities
unknown and believed to be extinct,
living fossils to those we once knew,
squinting into the sky
we'd half forgotten in our
time as troglodytes, our time
as prisoners in the subterranean
corridors between where we
aspired to be and where we
were,

We, the sinners not yet damned

We, broken but not quite ruined

We, who have survived somehow and come
through the other side of the storm, still
almost us, still almost okay.

Patrick M. Tracy
6/6/17



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