Brian Patrick

Tall, knowledgeable, caring, jovial and holy
Respected by many; exalted by others
His road – the road that should be taken
Irish of course, but not of the old sod

The unattainable, becomes at once, attainable
Your reckoning lightened by his words
The Black Robe is a tale to be told by all who believe
Believers they may be, but not for ease of living

He, The Black Robe, beckons you to seek his countenance
Consolation is offered within the folds of his robes
You accept the gift without hesitation of belief
Your belief in the blood sacrifice of the unbelievable

The comfort of refuse offered by The Cassock
Truly blackens with the deceit of the unholy
All too friendly for men and boys
The betrayal all too familiar for me

Brian Patrick

Plodding, trudging, slogging through the reeds
Praying for death or at the very least – rescue
Sweat and muck mingle as one
Sliding down my face and pouring over my body

Why me? I have no repair
Looking behind; not a human in sight
The arrows fly by whizzing in the dark
Into the mud I go – fearful

The light in the distance beckons
My limbs giving way to the weight
The rope catches my  neck and tightens
Into the Chart House dragged to no avail

My captors start the endless mindless dance
I am at the beginning of my long goodbye
Dare I give them the dark secret they desire
Never, never …
… the blood trickles down my ***** neck.

Brian Patrick

Cold blooded, darkly dripping
Teeth; long, sharp and oozing red
Nails extending beyond the reach
Wings embracing the night sky

Beelzebub scans the upper crust
His cantations include the depth of misery
The collector of souls and destroyer of flesh
The Rake, the conveyor of death

After the vernal equinox, preparations to begin
The first of the year yields way to St. Wineblad
Blood, body and soul gathered
More to continue for Walpurgis

As the sun sets, the three-eyed raven appears
The signal propels The Rake to flight
Searching, searching for worthy sacrifants
Low over the cornfields he marks his prey

Brian Patrick

Interesting, that someone like me
Someone who grew large on the street
Would have their very own island
An Island where one could go, but never live

The Island is far from beautiful
The flora and fauna are deplete from color
The water colorless and hard to the touch
Sand invades making all heavy

Visiting my Island becomes too often
It pulls me – no beckons me like a lover
To extend my stay never to retreat
Never to return to the life I live

Once on the Island chills and tremors grow
Dripping with sweat only to give in to torment
No sunshine, only the darkness and despair of the Island
My Island delivers desperate comfort

Never do I want to leave – only always
My Island only for me to wallow about
Forever trying to leave this paradise lost
Only to find my island visit lingers ...


© 2014 Brian Patrick

Brian Patrick

So isolated
My being feels like lead
groping, groping
my fingers raw with ripped flesh

Rotting, putrid air
Breathing becomes a burden
Walls keep closing in
Dark, dank and musky

The ***** *******
The cunning **** that he is
Exiled me to this earthly dungeon
My sentence to be drawn by death

The constant murky mess
Sludge that seeps in every pore
Without forethought or feeling
Life without touch; death

Brian Patrick

Standing on the precipice of my life
Waiting for the darkness to fly in
Looking at my starving body and wondering why
The images punctuate my failed existence

The world never wanted my being
It gave me nothing
A nothingness that craved heeling
My mind collapses on itself

How did I come to this precipice?
Why didn't the gathering herd receive me?
There can be no answer to my misery
The edge beckons me closer

As the images creep in and out
The abyss waits for my empty soul
The edge calls for me
The edge is no more – I have given in