there is something about histories

there is something about histories
and the way they always seem to repeat
themselves (ourselves) when we've reached
another new plateau

despite the evolution of the self
the self returns to that same old
sickly little self
wicked ways can't change
the hearts that have memory programmed
into the pattern of its pumping
of valves and vessels, in and out,
values exchanged from ventricle
to ventricle
the rest of the body
can't take
the continued flow
of past to past and past again
though it's learned how to oxyginate
and recycle
the past (its food for thought)

somehow, with time,
we reach the surface of the skin
the elements remind you, reconnect, you
to the reality of what was
for the first time, automatically,
the nervous system reacts
and the blood that is shed
is not saccharine
not of salt
but of a wish,
a wish to continue,
to close
the proverbial chapter
the one that has her as the lead
and you waiting in the curtains,
the wings that could lift you to life
if only you could remember
those lines you know you
can finally say.