words are tools.
[i think we forget this.]
we place them in specific and precise patterns
and know that the order serves a purpose.
[just like this poem. i am meticulous with placement.]
you know and i know and they know that history
is another line in a long story.
[purple prose. flowery language. why can we never call Time
what it is?]
we push down words and songs and names
and moments in the name of some higher power.
[god? really?]
[are we using that excuse?]
who tells your story? is it you? is it me?
was it yesterday? tomorrow? today?
[narrative: 1. (n) a way of presenting or understanding a situation
that reflects and promotes a particular point of view or set of values;
- (adj) having the form of a story or representing a story; 3.
of or relating to the process of telling a story]
in moments of tragedy, we search for
Truth.
[truth: (n) 1. the body of real things, events and facts; 2. a transcendent
fundamental or spiritual reality; 3. sincerity in action, character
and utterance]
who do we listen to
when we wish to learn how we arrived here?
[you know the answer. we all do.]
[i do not know if i have ever really Listened.]
in what order does the spinning web of time guide us?
[today. yesterday. A hundred years ago. three
hours from now. this morning. across the world. in
your childhood bedroom. at the beginning. the end. shattered. whole.
Tomorrow.]
which words are ours?