Smaller now the island seems
The refuge, once, of hopes and dreams
Is just a pile of bricks and beams
Where doorways in are doorways out
And certainties give way to doubt
While reservoirs defer to drought

The paper trail has washed away
The oracles have much to say
But not pertaining to today
The path that led us hence is clear
But where we are to go from here
Needs wisdom that we must revere

But we revere the seers no more
Nor trust the mantle that they wore
Our hope is not the hope of lore
The orators in birthday suits
Sew leaves of figs but bear no fruits
We’ll beat our drums, not heed their flutes

We’ll board a crusty ship of fools
Defy the odds and break the rules
With hasty plans and makeshift tools
We’ll chart a course around the horn
Where bows are broke and sheets are torn
Where futures are destroyed and born

© Chris Price 2016