-Paul Swaine
Faith. The red wine tastes like blood,
The kindred sky takes no glance.
Each day, dyed with my shoes a flavored mud.
“Look through the pane”, just to see them dance and dance.
They call me the hindered, callous. I am the catered trance,
To secrete me a fool, find time for your trap.
Contribute to your charity, while dining in France.
“Lyon and Nice, Such a great place this time of” Oh crap,
The beggar dead. “Eat of his flesh while it’s still warm!” Don’t bat.
Not even once. Or I will show you your Papal. Your bull.
Don’t call me the hateful spirit. This is only me.
Oh Faith, your twists and shape are heavenly.
Divine. Comedy. For this place, rests where the final dwell
For this parade of colors, no quarter-light district. Dia de Muertos, ahh… just rat’s alley.
A dark, ever-changing Navy. A man, helpless, without contribution fell
Into……..O…….. The Dragon’s Sea. Its scales and shred are ceaseless,
Tear and maim, just to re-grow and re-arm with the Dunce’s fee.
A digression, “Do you hear this music Faith? Chopin…” I guess it’s just me.
That echo, that sweet song seems to call, from my ages. “Weakness!”
“Slave! Your iridescence! Endothermic! Void and shapeless!”
Faith… Those words you speak.. It’s not you.
This mechanoid, struggles for your release. As I put two…..
Straight into your knees (you slump down, draining), and in your shoulders (Brief agony, grown respite), and one finally in your head.
Fresh from my 1877, seems to burn my unblinking eye
Staring at you. In Wonderment. As I find
A wall to shelter my frayed spineless nature, with everyone
Leaping, emitting, trampling each other for survival of the fittest.
I Reload.
My older brothers have done much less harm but still can be blamed.
I don’t know how many more shells, I will hear hit the floor.
How many more will I taste? And when they’ve come for me.
And all the King’s horses and all the King’s men.
Destiny is the one, who I shall embrace…
Maynooth Creative Writing Society 