BY DR. AGONSON
In a loop, an eddy in time, I’m trapped,
playing this worn out scene, the night we snapped.
How should it be that all our ups and downs
are in such madness ultimately crowned?
And when that old clock, now fallen to rust,
sounds its twelve broken chimes, to my disgust
we seep out the walls’ crumbling plaster
rehashing long disputed disaster.
My fault, you say. It’s your fault, I return.
Whoever’s to blame we never discern.
But, in that dark early morning hour,
you always fall victim to my power.
This part in the drama, finished and done,
you fade away, smoke rising from my gun.
Left in the empty house, I know the end,
there is only one way to make amends.
Again and again, tragedy unfolds.
Nothing but bitterness the future holds.
With trembling hands I raise my steady steel.
The hammer falls, I return to Sheol.
Listen to my beautiful voice: