Writing History

Frozen in the thought of these.
How many brought to their knees?

Marks of hate, symbols of fear?
Perhaps we should keep them near.

Has this fear been manufactured?
By those who might have it backward?

On rights and wants of a collective.
Driving toward a grand objective.

Objective, objects, that’s the call.
On we the subjects, one and all.

Each one with a point of view.
What pains me, is good for you.

Wandered all from different places.
The beautiful, uncovered faces.

And yours, and hers, we the meek.
Precious, fresh and unique.

To be equal, or to be free?
That’s the choice now given we.

By whom, and why, and is it true?
And if so, then what to do?

Pick your poison, pick your pill?
Deny your wants, your whim and will?

Sounds so simple, but is it really?
Fictious lines, round grave and silly.

Discerning false from fallacy,
Un-truths and squelched reality.

Underneath, there’s raw intent.
What are they trying to prevent?

Where does this madness lead us next?
How will this storm recount in text?

How we let the passions govern.
Ran from fire to hide in ovens.

Traded one oppressor for another.
From modest stifle to deadly smother.

And then a silence that seems to last.
Like graves of free men of the past.

History wrote without their perspective.
Assuaged the guilt of murderous collectives.

Individuals, souls, each distinct.
Once flourishing, but now extinct.

This the place we’re set upon.
But we won’t be here for too long.

In cause and effect, yet each endures.
From root to tree, including yours.

This part grows eternally.
Without esteem infernally.

All that is still holds the reigns.
With little rest, ever in change.

For it’s shifting, it’s in motion.
Our raging, wild, human ocean.