I am from the tick-tocking hands, traveling counter-clockwise,

Where right is left and everything is a messed up sketch.

In a dimmed room, where true white, is precious gold,

Lighting up part of the black and white room.

 

In this room, plays a film.

Rolling and rolling, a film where stories with “-ed”s are watched,

As it plays, we sit there, striving with curiosity.

To see mirrored figures, scribbled and unclear.

 

The fresh smell of onions, sweet and strong,

The tall smiling, black figure, to forget such face.

The soft, warm, new carpet, beneath,

The T.V. static, goes on and on.

 

A little black figure, rising up one hand,

To enjoy the spreading taste of food and more,

Both smiling and laughing, forever more,

In a dimmed room, where true white is touched.

 

Then the film stops, almost forgotten at the moment of new view, tears apart as hands stops,

No more reverse, it continues to walk on. In search of a new film, in search of the new.

For memories that will be engulfed with the same fate as the last one, if not kept, if not kept...

This is where I am from, the forgotten past.

 

This is where I’m from, the forgotten past.