A Sort of Glass

I was there when bonds were broken,

when everything you could bank on failed,
at the end of history,

when beliefs were considered quaint

the etymology of which I like to consider,

at times like these, when we leave behind 
a beautiful place for something more sinister;

like the jack-boot of a culture we let go of

marching over itself again and again 

and again and again, and again.

Is it really a shame if we’ve got bankers to blame?

Or does blame come too swiftly, never compensatory?


Though rich with satire we don't see our faces in the fire, 
or the shattered glass.