past becomes present, deadpan "naturalness"

'let dead men lie'
i expect from you,
cynical old man,
a rage born of 
years of sight-memories.

you of all that still stand
would know the importance
of laying some things 
down to rest forever.

they should not be disturbed
just as graves were meant to 
stay in the ground, stay still. 

though if my head is a prison,
then i fall safely into these iron bars
bending under no ill will
for the moment being. 

"now" changes every second,
"then" is never concrete. 
do not tell me to look ahead,
where should i aim for?

anecdotes litter my spoken thoughts,
words pushing past my lips,
scraping at my teeth,
staining my tongue.

The End

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