Through Drying Eyes

--Gavin Bourke, Ireland

Mathematical deviations, beyond acceptable standards, over time’s

entire durations.

Lonely is jealousy, boxed in corners, of the limits of thought, on time’s altar.

Polarising populations, protruding, extruding, through the brackets, broken,

on the backs, of yesteryears.

Prisoners of the mind’s eyes, reflections, of the outside’s, inside.

Passive smoke and observation, brighter than before, vein spurts

over years, sour tasting tears, of whiskies.

Calling out for the old, within, from the other side of the door, in the hallway.

Creaming, cutting deep, over the lines, drawn out.

Acceptance and reckoning, around reality and the memory.

May as well be hung for the sheep, as for the lamb, atavism in action.

A wet summer and a bad harvest, that year, the only think coming down,

were hailstones and burning crosses.

Fed false consciousnesses, to false consciousnesses.

Into dichotomousness and the emptiness, of the crater’s shells.

Burn ragged, flipped back and forward, between comfort of denial

and the pain of acceptance, many times, in this lifetime.

The struggles through the closing eye, of the total totality of everything,

within the theme, of the overall grand scheme,

if there is one.