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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.

War wears its doom like a ragged blanket,
Only history knows the story; it must be tired
of the repetition.

 

 

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