Passing The Tigers And Other Machines Poem by Kevin Patrick

Nobody listens, when the quite once scream
And frail lips chip, gasping concrete
Through the grey panorama of mercenary streets
passing the tigers and other machines
in the arena of celebratory Blasé

Sweet girl, in the shell of a waif she was a ghost before pushing daisies under the undertow of strings
on her shoulders
and pockets
Stashed with Morse codes
and signs That did not come
when she sank into grins as we continued to build on our full self-esteem Full speed ahead on our private retreat

You can see terror lodged in their black button eyes
but nobody does
because it’s not their time

And if it’s not their time Why should they mind?

But still, the dead weep for the living and few debark without notice from the vain gallery without applause or cruel hecklers as unnoticed stars in the night
My personal invitation was received all the same
And I must follow the rules of coffee and cream
passing the tigers and other machines