To Go Away

Yesterday (Written 2007-ish)

Though dust may gather in this spot,
Once something is, is rarely not.
Seldom do things cease to be,
For then they must leave history.

Can any man be truly gone
If when no more he leaves his spawn?
If one remains on mankind’s lists,
In some small way, the man exists.

I wonder if it’s possible
For nothingness to take control?
If only from an awkward view,
Existence leaves a residue.

Even if no longer seen,
Except, perhaps, when madmen dream,
The man exists, if just because
We can remember when he was.

For it to leave, to cease to be,
It must be purged from memory-
To do this there is but one way:
One must destroy their yesterday.


Can anybody tell that I have been watching Fringe lately? Though, I actually wrote this poem long before I had ever even heard of the show, so it is purely a coincidence how well it fits. I was writing a short story that I now find to be depressed and ever so slightly disturbed, about a little girl who would unmake people who made her mad, and eventually unmade most of the world except one other little girl who woke up one morning and found everybody else gone. She remembered everybody though, and eventually brought them all back. It was an interesting story.

*sigh* Not in the mood to write a poem right now though, and I am sort of finding myself to be depressed and in the mood to enjoy something ever so slightly disturbed (and I have been watching Fringe, which was oddly appropriate), so I started thinking of that story again, and wondering if I shouldn’t write it up for real now. Who knows? Maybe I will find some answers in the writing. When you are putting something, so to speak, in stone, you just might find that you think things through very carefully, and in ways you otherwise never would have. For instance, I just now came up with the answer to a question I have been torturing myself over for a long time, and I found that answer because I was trying to explain part of why I would write down such an old story. The mind is an amazing thing, that I find myself loving and hating- and, indeed, even fearing- almost always all at the same time. Curious indeed.

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