There was not much attrition, despite your pleadings
as cock-sure incidents sink your boat.
You retire hastily, excused by separation
nay-saying to the death, a proud species
that was not called success, nor trip fantastic.
Wall-to-wall sorrow pervades the room
pacing back and forth, a conundrum hatched
to catch you, explanation is at a loss
to put you in your place, trite platitudes
blow away any sense of irony.
You crash in park doorways, any way convenient
your manifesto in conspiracy is well received
by those who know worse than to associate
with your bad self, a chronic understanding
of which goes where, the laws of boredom
Those cars propel themselves, for good or ill
out of lunacy, out for lunch, a cry in the night
pervades your curiosity, an adventure gone before
it had a chance to acquiesce with you
a noble calling running amok.
Death cannot sink you, gravestone or not.
Friends piece together your lifetime’s quirks
hobbled clean for better bearing
conspiracy sunk into clay
a cold mechanism that ruthlessly equalises.
Are you spirit? Are you truth?
I beg to differ. Whatever is not to like
charming birds out of bushes,
no one will scrag your orphaned possession
nor continue your warfare against type.
Bio: Patricia was born and raised in the small parish of Mourneabbey, Mallow, County Cork in the Republic of Ireland. Her previous publications include a book of poetry titled: Continuity Errors and a novel, The Quest for Lost Eire, published in 2014. She has also been published in a number of journals.