The History I Have

History I Have

Somber stories are worn
Somber stories be told
Of a child much wiser
That never grows old

The stairsteps, creeking
My thief’s gloves are peeping
What is it I need?
The warm heart that’s beating

Their secrets be theirs
My secrets be mine
To be stolen, unwoven, retold
By trepidatious time

Their secrets are salient
Mine will be forsaken
Soot buried undergrowth
To be avenged, to reawaken

Amaranthine is my clutch, my touch
Keep it, it’s not much

Old truths, worn rooms, top floors, lazy brooms
No lights, turn around, he won’t see, won’t hear a sound

Somber stories are mine
Somber stories be kept
Of a child much wiser
Whose horrors never slept

Somber stories are mine
Somber stories be gone
Of a child much wiser
Who learned to get along

I’ve grown old but none the more wise
To the history I have that his story defies

Melanie Falconer is a freelance writer and editor living in Los Angeles, California. Her writing mainly concerns philosophy, personal experiences, cultural commentary, and her love of the visual and performing arts. If you’d like to reach out to her, you can do so here.