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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