33. The Scent of Archives

 

the scent of the archives | in the dark you

may not know of | in the mud and the dirt

I have so seen the | records of the past

blooming in green and yellow | and blue

the algeaic mold | slowly growing page

by page | from the head of the book | through

to the end | and sending a message

the record cannot | survive

it cannot bear forth into | any future

the full meaning of what | it once was

welcome to the past | you will never know

but did we ever | think it would?

did we even hope | the record would

tell us what we needed to know | did

it ever even meet | in its pristine state?

or was it created by rote | without

concern for what it might be | or

what it might tell | its creators?

does the record | mean anything?

will it ever present | anything to us?

 

we are alone | in space

in our thoughts | in the grand mass

of humanity | increasing around us

but moving | farther

away | as they do

they do not recall | the name

of their second-grade | teacher

they do not live | in the past

(though it | infects their every move)

they bear their | history forward in

the veins and | bones of their bodies

every day | they feel it

but | ignore it

if they think | of it | they wonder

how to rid themselves | of

baggage | how to erase

how to subtract | rather

than add | or multiply

they grow heavier | each day

with every breath | they suck

 

we live in | th’eternal present

which never leaves | us

the past is | a forgotten thing

lumbering | behind us

the future is | a fiction we

have yet to live | we do not

know a finger | from a toe

we cannot calibrate | our

lives against a | life we once

had | but cannot recall

the meaning of | we sleep

fitfully | or not at all

wondering if dream | is

the passageway | to

death | if we have

time | to

finish | it

without ever quite | knowing

what it | is

or what it | is not