Let The Dead Bury The Dead

We can't even believe our own strange histories; Though they stare us in the face, for hours each day And awaken us in a cold sweat, during the nighttimes. And what if someone told me they remembered me In another place and time, wearing other clothing and relationships Would I laugh, and say they've lost their mind? What if they had pictures; claiming it was me And asked me if I had strange memories How could I reply? Not one can know a man's secret heart Would I feel it was ego, trying to elevate itself to something More commendable; higher status of another life But none of that could matter anymore; the past has died. Nothing is gone so far away as the past; hold my hand Tell me those old stories if you want to. But bury the past deeply; The only history that survives it, in the highlight of an eye. And if I see his face in a vision, it is just that; Only a vision, even if it wasn't a photograph, even with Correct dimensions; and if I hear her voice, it is just that; A voice is a freedom in the air, like a flying bird; A bird can fly from tree to tree, singing its heart out in song- And if she now is free like that, that's all that I could hope for.