The Heap of History

The Heap of History

A history is a powerful weapon, for it

binds and blinds and separates us all. Sectarian

damages push the cliff edges slowly closer and

a sudden unexpected step backward can pull one

overboard and lead us to descend into the ash

of a thousand empires torn apart and burned to the

ground; of a million trillion broken and whitened

and pulverized  to dust; of countless screams and cries heard

and forgotten, frozen in time. The plunge doesn’t kill,

the impact doesn’t maim; all that occurs is desertion

by the people above. The ash is eaten; when one

is full, they burst into painless flame and disappear

from sight. Their remains are the ashes and the ashes

their remains, and so when discovery is made, no

distinction is made from what is and what was the past.

Those from above are either ignorant or hidden

from view, knowing the truth from fiction by the different

shades of ash that line and fill the pit; for not only

do the bodies of the vanquished and slain fill the pit,

but their histories, written and spoken, poured inside,

wetting the ashes to calm the heat and prevent a

fire from rising outward, a blazing phoenix hell-bent

on earthly vengeance, itself ignorant that towers

built on lies, that lose their keystone, crumble with the wind.