Tuesday, June 19, 2018

Mortal Projectile Falls

These sweet oblivions
turn sour soon enough

All forevers going far
outside the colored lines

All grasping hopes doomed
to slip across our palms

The vision through the funhouse
mirror almost accurate to the twist

The slew of all our hopes
bending back and darker

The spiral breaking
the limits of us sprung

Hurtling further and stranger
our targets moving windward

Aspirations turning to regrets
as our mortal projectile falls

Predictable as mathematics into
the bosom of the burying ground

Less than half completed
far more than mostly broken

And perhaps proud of some small
triumphs we hold like talismans

Against what bitter eons of night
we may yet turn and witness

By Patrick M. Tracy

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