History runs like a broken record. it concerns
itself only with itself, yet
we go on living, in Expectation of
something Different. This hope is what
keeps us, leaves us here
and who am I to dash anyone’s hopes?
But I’m a cynic at heart, and repeats
exasperate me. I say, is there hope for me?
Or will I repeat myself,
Convincing little more than myself,
like some broken record?
