The windows shatter,
Shards of yesterday spill out
like pieces of a puzzle
jumbled and mismatched,
from trying to set the picture straight;
hold visions of tomorrow.
I beg for answers
but prophets avoiding my eyes
stroke their scraggly beards
with bony fingers
and offer wise toned murmurings,
something about this being a season of paradox.
We wear the soothsayers’ doom
like a ragged blanket.
Too far removed from its time,
we speak of war as if it were the answer.
The keeper of truth is history;
it must be tired of the repetition.