Cities and suburbs, real and imaginary.

Wednesday, November 16, 2016

Sonnet #138

I don't think anyone knows what actually happened

We like to analyze and talk, and talk and talk
But we were not there, and even where we walked
the streets of history, our ego renders us blindered
So much of what we sense never breaks the veil
of conscious thought, and so little of that breaks
the parchment of memory. History is written by flakes
of snow upon a plain that blow a pattern on a windowsill
The pattern is invented by the human will for sense
But we see the faces, there, we see the picture of the world
And forget that all we see is a fog of snowflakes, dispensed
By weather we can't even measure, feel a wind hurled
Memory is a story that accumulates into a history
From this mythic place we gather futures out of worries.

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