scream.

 They screamed. 
 

The air rattled in tune


and they screamed so loud         
 

   their heads blew up.
   Finding themselves        in a place that made no sense,   
they pieced together secrets,
white lies, fear, dreams and glue them with beliefs.

Anything
to draw images     of themselves 
 
to validate their existence

constructing

a common thing called memory.  
 
 
 
Time passes.
Myth becomes reality. 
 
 
 
 
They call it history.

from Meet My Dead Grandfather