It's the job of an author to develop a way of seeing that makes history appear as it never has
The history of the world, sure, delightful
But the history of oneself, ablated sinecure, frightful
A guided reinterpretation of the past, the layout of the present brain
This is the moment of a writer's cutting to the heart
Not to destroy, to re-orient the valves
The moment it happens, when this author shines that light
The bats fly out, out for blood
Letting them go, blowing off the dust, taking a look at the cave paintings:
I see what I thought, where I was wrong, and I am filled with doubt and fear
If these memories could be so modified, simply by reading, where is the foundation
It's brief, though, this vertigo: do look down, the down doesn't rule my feet
Onward, I search, for more reorientation to the past
Roman Ryan 