History is Trapped Within Them

Afremov's On the Way to Morning
On the Way Home to Morning – Painting by Leonid Afremov

History is trapped within them,
in their idols, borders, and their gold,
trapped within their family names, and arts.

History is trapped within them
by facts and memory, the stuff of legends,
by the treachery of happiness and savagery
that we’re desperate, or begrudgingly forced to hold on to,
longing for the joy of better days.

You’ve clung to them with bleach white fingers,
the joy of past nostalgia,
the rusted chains of tattered baggage,
searching for the same beauty, and ferocity/
carrying the aftermath again.

History comes back for an encore,
whether we damn well please or not,
back into the theatre of our lives;
sometimes as caricatures of farce, lies,
or magnum opus;
but it comes back, necessary
like a breath of air
for fury, for love, or contemplation.

It could be climbing over mountains
or crawling into bed, leaving home behind,
and weathering storms behind undermined refuge,
the teeming refuse cast from shore.

It’s reflected in the realm of banished monsters,
the naming of elusive stars,
begrudging tirades sent to god,
and rice thrown down the aisle with love.

It’s diecast into symbolism,
transcribed into parallels,
and the incapacity of words;
history is trapped within them all,
because its subjectivity
is the only thing we understand.

History my friend, is the actions, and
consequences of humanity;
which we
the people,
the poets
and the wandering perpetual thinkers,
are here to live with,
record, avoid, and recreate
for the guiding footsteps of the future.


How is your writing coming along on NaPoWriMo day 10? Feel free to drop comment on your progress down below. Happy writing! -MC

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