The whole of human history
is but a memory
I can't speak for you
But if I've learned anything
It's that nothing is more fickle,
more malleable, more suggestible,
than the fragile tendrils
of human thought

History is an old man
With weak knees and arthritic fingers
Drunk off the non-existent
fumes of long forgotten glories
His cracked and bony cane crashes,
crushes, and disperses,
seemingly indiscriminately
He who grappled with Stalin and Caesar
With kings and commoners
With everybody who cried 'Wait! Wait!
More time! More time!'
(And everybody who didn't)
And this request they were granted
by the old man
For time he has plenty
Understanding he does not