of the future. Now I search the tangled
entropy of brambles and bindweed.
Nothing useful emerges, only woodlice.
Clouds no longer spell out predictions,
don’t merge or drift into forgotten faces
or arrows, indicating the way forward.
These tea leaves do not show patterns,
just transmit random letters through
flecks settling in cups, stewed static.
I scry daily but my mind is a broken
telescope array. Like every person
now I stumble forward in ignorance.
I ask the stars for guidance. No reply.
This was written from “something hidden, something unknown, something to be discovered” prompt from the Poetry in the Time of Being Alone group.
- Because time has gone strange