How well back does one go
when telling one's own tale,
when sitting here and now
seeing as you wish to see,
knowing what you now know
about that singular trail
meandering somehow
with hindsight's guarantee?
It all makes sense and blends
every twist and untimely turn
with meaning assigned true,
life has now become history,
chance and choice and friends,
sterile events of no concern;
and how one must construe
why love is such a mystery.
To narrate thus all are saints,
cogs in wheels' insistent turns,
discerning intents of the foe,
with only errors to publicize;
all seeing with no constraints,
omniscient narrator yet learns
in providence it had to be so
and we've committed deicide.
What alternative to this curse,
memory conflicted with sense;
the billions lived, loved and lost
and forgotten in anonymity;
what caution following hearse,
sophist confusion of pretense,
told in a tale so well glossed
annals recounted so uncritically?
But one will not be gainsaid,
yet insignificant, not ignored
for once upon a time, sometime
this will be one's awkward plea;
it's of value that one was bred
without recourse to reward
there's worth in the sublime
and days found in archaeology.
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