m i s s i n g r o p e s

Gazing at the post-war world,

what remains, if anything at all?

Fragments of decency and respect,

scattered across a golden expanse.

Sparkling party dresses,

mingling through different eras,

stumbling, then instantly replaced

by improved versions of themselves.

Perhaps this time it will work.

This life we live, a broken machine.

Unstable, torturous, and strange,

pointing us toward illusions.

Logic is the answer.

(I miss my city.)

To reach the proper conclusion

when everyone has departed

in the end,

during the war's darkest hour.

Unwavering, with no pity or remorse.

We pressed onward regardless.

Mocked, bewildered, and numb.

We endured the darkest days.

Shaping the future, undeniably,

and that's the price we alone must bear.