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