Dead While Breathing | Poetry

10-Museum

I watch our history through glass displays,
Told by objects that should have rot in the ground.
I follow through the building,
Reading boards of historic accounts,
Telling me history from victor's position.

These things,
Are what happened before,
When war went on,
When people suffered,
When people survived,
When people die
For everything they believe,
And everything that they didn't.

I touch the glass again,
Palm against the cold smooth surface,
And I wondered would I ever understand,
How much pain,
How much sorrow,
How much victory,
How much defeat
Contained in these artifacts.
Would anybody here truly understand
History
Unless they lived it?

These artifacts should be eaten by nature,
Taken into the ground for the new life,
But here they are,
Living (somewhat).
History lives in us,
In the books,
In the museums,
In our conversations,
In the face lines of our grandparents,
In the politics of our countries.
These things are living on,
In our memories-
Yet,
Yet why do I feel so far away from this history that embodies who we are?

Dead things are preserved.
But they are all dead,
Only living somewhat in the memories of the living people,
Until those people die,
And only leave those who know superficially,
To carry on preserving this history.
What is history,
If the people who lived through it are going to die one day?

Perhaps that's why we keep repeating history-
Because we can never know history
The way those who lived it.
And we are always bound by our vices
To make the same mistakes without true reminders of what was.