Come one, come all. It's happening again.
Some say that history repeats itself, or,
with certainty, it rhymes, and sometimes
rhymes come with music attached.
April 19, midnight, then 2 AM, we fail to
see it clearly, all the time distracted.
Falling missiles, starving children,
bleached out corals. Enough, enough.
Midnight, April 19: history happens.
Never will it be repeated. Until
the next time, our shrunken lives
a Mobius strip of worthless dreams.
Maybe I could see it as pathetic, if
pathos fed the narrative. I remember
all too well. History is always
written by the victorious.
This draft poem contains the gem of an idea suggested by prompts from Miz Quickly and NaPoWriMo for April 20. I hoped to reflect on how we define history in an age of instant gratification fueled by the internet and social media. Perhaps the release of The Tortured Poets Department is a historical event for our times. The first line is from a song on the album, How Did It End?
the raven's eye 
There’s a series from AMC called “Fallout”. Begins with the end.
It’s happening again.
Just when you start to think it can’t get any worse, bam.
Those who should learn from passed mistakes do not. And they tend to repeat the same mistakes…over and over.