Bombs Bursting in Air

The windows shatter,
Shards of yesterday spill out
like pieces of a puzzle
jumbled and mismatched,

Fingers bleed
from trying to set the picture straight;
splattered fragments
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.

3 thoughts on “Bombs Bursting in Air

  1. BoardFlak

    Alas, humans learn more from experience than from history – and experience comes only from making the same mistakes as in the past. Small wonder that history tires of the repetition.

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