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