It’s not going to be okay
be what it was
be what yesterday whispered on the winds.

Yesterday we were comfortable
while today we have been cast
Fortuna’s lots on the gambling table.

I keep being told it will be okay
be what it was
be bold and beautiful under a mid-day sun.

I stare into empty eyes before me
solemn eyes raw from too many tears
shoulders up to ears that have heard too many lies.

It will not be the same
never the same as we skirt across
the rim of the earth’s edge into blackness.

The plagues have come
locusts and frogs from above
and I am sick of hearing that it will all be okay.

I am sick of reassurance
sick of the smiling painted masks
repeating again and again the same lines.

This tale will weave its way
along a path through shadow and loss
but it will never be the same.

Our tale will spin from here
into what it *will* be
into what tomorrow will whisper on the winds.