History Repeats Itself ~
Soulless. Dead eyes popping out from,
Dark smudge bags
An unfinished pot pie sits, ...
At my elbow, with a fork driving out of,
The center like a spoke,
Into a heart,
As I watch the people pass,
Into a gold yellow,
Puddle, walking into a hazy unknown,
Fading into some land far distant as they pass over the line,
Which marks off the World Trade Center,
An eerie spectrum. A historic emblem that carries a past,
Embracing the streets and the New York City scene,
As people disappear into its bosom-
In a steadfast march towards the mystical unknown mist,
Sinking beneath the skyline gripping the edge,
Of the trade center building- and disappearing.
Like ants running into a hole disposed of,
By whatever Art of Creation had designed for them,
Dropping off of the city street,
One, by one, they are,
Giving the impression that,
History can leave a mark. That history carries about it a spirit, and,
One wonders if it knows,
What happened on Fulton Street on 9’11,
And if it has a malicious intent behind it,
To begin again.