Will We Ever Be The Same Again

Before a chilled pane, 
frosted by the crackled hoar of staccato chatter,
inane and unintelligible in this leaden atmosphere,
I stand and wait, detached and inarticulate, 
as life flitters around me
with broken wings 
in a seemingly disordered flight

My charts have faded, 
as the compass needle wavers aimlessly,
and the pathways are unlit, 
even to the seasoned and sharp-eyed.
Perhaps the hiatus will heal, 
and threads will join the loom again,
yet part of the pattern has gone, 
and weave and weft are irretrievably lost.