Sunday, June 17, 2018

Call the Hammers of the Whirlwind

What tears away
like insect wings
inside the whirlwind
and peels like lead
between the cylinder
and the forcing cone
as the powder combusts,
the noise like mundane
thunder kills the silence
and perhaps something
more profound than that
within these shattered
spirits, fractured shards
no longer fit to hold
the heady admixture of our
hearts' blood, discarded
in the gloom of blown
bulbs and burnt fuses.

To fuse the burnt black
embers, bulbs of our
spoiled garden blown and
sent to gloom, discarded
lives to which we once aspired
with every dram of blood in
our hearts, admixtures
turned foul, heads held
within hats we can no longer
pretend will fit, and shards
of pain fracture at the temple,
temples raging with spirits shattered,
all within us sighing with the hurt
of finding all profundity
slip from our grasp, something
eaten by silence, killed with thunder
and combustion, leaving spent powder
and dust where we once had firm
handholds upon the shapes and gears,
the tubes and cylinders of the
mechanism of our world, the whirlwind
peeling the inside wings of our souls
and leaving us little more than insects
below the hot hammer of the burning sun.

By Patrick M. Tracy

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