Parts of me have feared becoming greatBecause it seemed that the price would be death,And a post mortem gloryThat my memory could never learn to resurrect.I've stared at paintings,Dieing to catch glimpses of the painter,Closed my eyes to listen to songsThat drunken ghosts dance to.And all the while I've struggledTo free the present,To become.
Dear history, I beat you.Generator of generationsBearing witness to a worldThat we are holding accountableFor past actions.
Dear history, we no longer believe in you.We have invested our beliefsIn the present time, the present momentInto our present opportunityTo shift our reality into oneThat does not resemble the past.
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