Mired in itself, the circuit goes:
All of the gods have died.
Here, in this ring, we worship,
not only them, but all of nothing.
Our mates are ourselves, centered
in a void. Outside the ring, yet in it.
All momentum is the same.
It will go. It will go nowhere.
The pianist forgot her strokes –
the birth of jazz. She is dead now.
Her child repeats. So does his.
No one clamors for salvation.
Patrick Key started writing seriously later in life, thanks to the help of a poetry class during his undergraduate years. His interests revolve around the absurdity of life and love, disillusionment, and the human tendency to struggle with impossibilities. His works have appeared in The Corner Club Press, The Penwood Review, and Argus.