Entered into the Memory of December 3rd, Two Thousand and Two Years after the Supposed Birth of the Christ

look at me, the wondrous soul
tell me things, stories do unfold,
when trapped amongst a hundred living trees,
				living like the harvests of antiquity,
they strangle me with there tongues,
			    but make me feel oh so pretty.

 ode to solemnity:
tonight i dropped my glass
as my heart poured out through my eyes
both tumbling on the floor.
i know if my heart will be
as resilient as the mug on my floor
or if it will instead be like my tears
shattered and no more.

Time is naught but a genre for reality.  We interpret all we “know” through this genre.  All we claim to know and understand has its basis in history