scream.
 They screamed. 
Â
The air rattled in tune

and they screamed so loud     
Â
  their heads blew up.
  Finding themselves     in a place that made no sense, Â
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.  
 
 
Â
Time passes.
Myth becomes reality. 
 
 
 
 
They call it history.
from Meet My Dead Grandfather
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