The Beggars’ Waltz

Certainty crumbles into dust,

the meaning escapes from our lives

like air from a punctured balloon;

the last of our threadbare hopes

tears asunder,

leaving a gaping hole

that we patch with

remorse and desire,

repairing outward appearances

so that others might

see us differently as we

in turn see them,

and they too are torn;

and so begins again

the slow waltz of beggars,

prying coins from the

feeble grasp of Tomorrow’s largesse;

undermining its certainty

until certainty is gone,

and with the coins we’ve pried

we purchase our next

punctured balloon.


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