Sunday, June 18, 2017

The Bottom Edge of the Clouds

This ringing silence
this house, once filled
a place of voices now
gone silent, a place that
once echoed with the laughter
of the fallen, shifted beneath
the steps of those who
no longer walk this world

The strange and willful
business of the day, the
loading of the dishwasher
the clearing away of the
trash, the small task we
throw ourselves into as
if it had some meaning,
some purpose greater than
to nullify the strange
empty in the wake of
all these souls, now
gone beyond the veil

These long days when we
are fueled upon the fires
we light within ourselves,
seeking anything, any way
to expel the thousand
screams building forever
at the back of our throats
to exhaust ourselves so that
we have no more energy to
rip at our own breast in
the grief we will not let
ourselves feel

The grand and useless angers
we find within ourselves,
bonfires of our own souls as
we rail against the trivialities
of the moment, hiding behind them
so that the oncoming dark cannot
catch us for a time.

But the night draws ever darker
around our faces, and there are
no stars, but only the purple
light of the city reflected against
the bottom edge of the clouds,
and there is no escape for us,
we who live to rail against the
silence and know our own frailty
against the hands of fate.

Patrick M. Tracy

5/22/17


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