The historian
.
A few pictures of me as I grew up, remain
I allow memory to behave like an app
Turning every moment away from disdain
Unless I want my present to give me a slap.
I create my past from conversation bits
Gently brushing away parts I do not like
What I complete, now smugly sits
For unsavory swells, becomes a dyke.
Now each of us is a historian of sorts
Collecting, sifting, and then creating a story.
Differing stories with snorts and retorts
Will, I’m afraid, create a new story
That isn’t the real story at all.
The future will hopefully know
And for created truth will not fall.
For now, history is everybody’s show.
.
.
.
.
Arvind Passey
16 January 2020
