On Perspective

Am I molding the molten molecules around me?

Or am I but a stiff shape, fitted into a mold?

Extending a hand, I can caress these molten forms-

am I one with them?

Or am I the sculptor -

a modern Camille Claudel,

addressing the world that manifests around me?

But how can we trust the sculptor

when we know not the thoughts that circulate the circumference of their cerebrum?

Do they dazzle?

Their blinding luminescence evoking the radical beliefs of luminaries of their era?

Or do they paralyze?

The grip of the terror they incite haunting us,

Allowing us to recall the fear of those before us -

fossilized in the amber of time.

We know not what they are made of -

Do they hold the form of clay?

Or do they melt under the heat of the thousands of suns

Passing over time?

Am I forever the ignorant traveller-

Absorbing yet never knowing the truth?

Or can the complex depths of my being mold my known truths

into a malformed sculpture called History?

into a malformed sculpture called History?

-By Kamie Aran