oracle
she turns her back
a signal to me
to suddenly heed 
silent symbols
formed softly
before clay chipped to flint,
our once-time together 
not futile.
to look at ourselves 
in deadlocked descent,
knowing rollercoasters
go down, and that up's
an illusion of flight, 
Peter-Pan-lost;
so who'd laugh now, 
turning our backs
each yelling silently
"look at me"
answered, by silence
"I won't"
then the thought of you
to remember a time
we assumed
faith, future, hope --
now the oracle's dark
and we've shredded 
the vestments to call it;
I wring damp sacrifice 
before the temple
and it's closed.
Jon Bohrn (1999)

 

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