No History

The future was a plane through a skylight, over Tribeca at eight forty-five,
My brother at a conference room table, watched the future rearrange all our lives,
I was sleeping in her bed for the future, first in twenty and five miles away.
Her roommate knocked he was a relative stranger, '
Kev, I need you to come out here, okay?' "
Okay."
The future was me drunk at my desk job, update the database to reflect the deceased,
and if it's channeled as a digital graveyard, next to each name I typed a lowercase 'd'.
I was frightened by the face of the future, with ¿habits? of perpetual war.
I called my father he said '
I know I see it, I thought it made sense, I don't anymore.'
The mosque on my corner, the firetrucks everywhere, the anger, the mourners, No history, it's dead in the air.
The mosque on my corner, the firetrucks everywhere, the anger, the mourners, No history, it's dead in the air.
The future was an adorned football, we are supported by the will of the world,
From the floor I felt everything tilting, watched my brother hold his ten month old girl.
It's ten years later and we're still in the future, where blood and money didn't fix anything,
we've grown accustomed to the depths of the danger, this is the future severe and always happening.
The mosque on my corner, the firetrucks everywhere, the anger, the mourners, No history, it's dead in the air.
No history it's dead in the air.