How many times

will we retread this ground?

Until we worship it?

Until we respect it?

It's the echo that paralyzes,

carrying our dead selves

(phantoms of what we used to be)

left behind in the tomb of our past.

We laughed at the funeral of who we were,

     thinking that The Now would never die,

     that we had forever,

     until our graying reflections

     slapped us back to consciousness.

All your rage about the dying light,

to what did it amount?

You hid from the slings and arrows

and reaped ungracious misfortunes.

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