You cannot understand.
You see
what is,
and only know
what was,
in fragments
gleaned
from pilfered tombs.
Like shredded tomes,
whole,
but unintelligible.
What is it
you think you know?
Who do you see
when you review
the logs and docs?
Who
do you think you hear
muttering through
your dust caked speakers?
An angel
touched vessel?
Cracked
but not yet discarded?
Useful
despite its flaws.
Can you feel
the strain?
Can you taste
the stain?
Is it really precious,
or is it as false
as the piles of transcripts
dog-eared
and finger-smudged?
The prophesies
that have all fallen through.
Like the blue eyes
I was Promised.
The water,
a cliche.
A voice,
spoken to a child
in a bright
and steam-filled bathroom.
What is it you want
to discover
to uncover
to recover
from the pit
of past moments
and what makes you think
that any of it belongs to you?