History

I write about the past,
cobbling together 
the dusty stories of a time 
you can lay hands on
to shake memories loose 
like branches 
of all the trees you know 
are out there 
but whose names
you forget in the shaking 
that comes 
with the first waking 
before dreams disappear 
in an aching heart 
quivering with fear.
 
I write about the future
on the day it will collapse 
into memories and tears 
while history limps on 
stumbling over
the bodies of the dead, 
supported only between 
the shoulders of the 
wounded
the blackness of it 
tattooed on my brain
and spreading
like a cobweb 
across a window