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.