PRISONER OF TIME 1 © 2007

History tires me,

Perhaps it’s the reason for my poor memory,

Which dissolves like sand in the wind,

Unable to retain what time tells me.

I can’t even draw the past

On the screens of my tired eyes,

The images fade, colourless,

And what was lived becomes a distant echo.

Details escape me,

As if they were never mine,

And what should be remembrance

Becomes a void, an endless emptiness.

History, that great storyteller,

Tires me with its insistence on revival,

But I, bound to the present,

Lose myself in the effort to try and understand.

Perhaps it’s better this way,

To let the past rest,

While I move forward,

With the hope that the future

Will be clearer, more present,

And that my memory, one day,

Will find rest in the simplicity of now.

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