Four Years Time

Rags of time,
sit in a pile of mildew
and familiar smells
that creep into my nose,
and cause memories to rise.

Memories that are static
in their vagueness
and never really seem as if
they actually happened.

Memories of foreign affairs.
Salty sweat, less amusement,
offering a look
at a simpler world.

Why do I have this premonition
that it's hard to make
life happen right.
That strongly I know
power is an illusion,
and what can I really do
to stop genocide?
Everyone has its wrong
in this anthropology,
and I am faced with a fact.

I have spent four years
learning to deploy a desruction
of what I knew,
and let something else
become what I know.