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.
There is an underlying sense of inevitability and sadness in this reflective and thought- provoking poem.
Great work!