Our Mistakes

The kind of wisdom needed to possess
Any inkling of understanding
Of a world encased in horrors
Such as ours
We have not the capacity, I confess.

We think we are so infinitely clever,
Told our children lies we are commanding
Ourselves to believe, just like order
Not seeing the bigger picture, or sounds
Echoing and distorting itself, as ever.

We think time continues on a single line
In which it follows for eternity.
But if such a thing were so,
History would not be an endless circle,
Which we repeat without ever seeing a sign.

Despite the dreadful horrors of the past,
Which we regard with taciturnity,
Never do we see that we repeat the show,
We make the same mistakes we encircle
With such dread in our repast.