by Patricia Walsh
Nothing I can do can change this,
The wanton distance causing eventual delighyt.
The public fawning, pleasantries enlightened
Solid in its passing, a few long years
Cemented in electronic speech, a brilliant argument.
What can I do but elaborate on nothing?
Once we fancied just ourselves, pitting in switch
As nature unintended, a passing crime
Reasoned out by a faithful message
It stays here, when the tirades don’t reach.
Crying on distant shoulders is my final lot
Exhausting concern over my doloration
A better situatiohn is already mine
Not realising, of course, in my infinite misery
Not coming from Finglas or Ballymun.
Making use of what’s left, a popular death
Spirited away to a softer reality
A regime to savour, kicking against the glasses
Broken with intent, to shame all and sundry
Not touching the intended is new key.
Slaughtering cheries cows is a righteous act
Waking up incarcerated a just reward
Not hurting other parties, no wish to cut
Away from parties, third or otherwise
Scratching at coffins with delight.