History

An ancient umbilical cord is tethered to my hair,

It is the skeletal arm of history.

A grotesque thing, at once decayed and decaying,

All its color slowly drained away into greyness.

There is no escape from this weight of centuries

Burdens of sand upon our shoulders

Just like Ouroboros futile meal of his own tail,

His dance with time consuming him whole.

And so we continue our ungainly duet as the seconds pass.

As he takes me, so do I peer over his shoulders,

We gasp staring into the infite gaze of the comos,

Only by stepping on those who have come before us.

Once great men of their time,

Now grey figures of coarse sand,

Binding us, as we bind them,

Escaping too, from the inescapable.