Wired to the sun, for sake of improvement,
Sordid cocktails drunk on the merry go round
Happy service to the gods at hand
Eschewing suicide for a better run.
What is meant by your speech? Light fantastic
Scintillates the purpose of a burning slight
Anthologised for safekeeping, sure immortally
Embarrasses the reader, a lost entity.
Holding out till the doorway opens, a happy prank,
Willfully in and out till the carpet retches.
Taking out of circulation like a diseased animal
Enough to revelate, as properly decreed.
It’s all just a bad day, nothing to declare
Cursory visitations reinforce the situation
Concerned to a point, unnecessary encumbrance,
Plucked out of obscurity by an imaginary disease.
Collapsing out of force, being always with you,
Suffering artists walk away with the loot
The corpse still warm despite batterings
Inflicted from frustration, that kind of person.
Cold weather, tempered by alcohol, conquered again.
Mixed ashes of beloveds scatter themselves
Forgotten by namesakes, an infected batch
Poisoning friends strictly by mouth.
Patricia Walsh was born and raised in the parish of Mourneabbey, Co Cork, Ireland. To date, she has published one novel, titled “The Quest for Lost Eire,” and one collection of poetry, titled “Continuity Errors.” She has also been published in a variety of print and online journals. These include: The Lake; Seventh Quarry Press; Marble Journal; New Binary Press; Stanzas; Crossways; Ygdrasil; Seventh Quarry; The Fractured Nuance; Revival Magazine; Ink Sweat and Tears; Drunk Monkeys; Hesterglock Press; Linnet’s Wing, Narrator International, The Galway Review; Poethead and The Evening Echo.