Maybe it all goes to pieces. 
What of it? 
Things fall apart, 
it’s the nature of things.
The wheel turns  
and the angels warn:  
don’t look back!
Yet we look, like Eurydice, 
like Lot’s wife, 
we yearn to see what it was 
we once were
in the fabled golden age, 
find only the shadow we cast 
across an unfathomed terrain, 
dust from the rubble, 
fallout in the air, 
the copper tang of blood 
on all our tongues, 
the glow of the circus tent 
in the near distance, 
the call of the barker, 
come inside, come inside.