Every experience,
no matter how large or small,
insignificant, or controversial,
those incidents are added to our history
one occurrence at a time.

Just as a jet leaves,
a white vapor trail,
across the cold blue sky,
recording its path for all to see.

Our lives leave a trail,
a filament if you will,
that stretches endlessly and unbroken,
to the source of our lives,
and is anchored firmly to our creation,
and to our beginnings.

Our histories are collected,
from the dead minutes,
of each and every day,
and year of our lives.

Those actions and those deeds,
accurately and ineradicably,
are etched into those long,
glossy translucent filaments,
which endlessly day after day,
year after year, uncoil from our soul.

Our filaments and our histories
are inexplicably and intricately,
woven into those filaments,
of the lives we have touched,
and the lives that have touched us.

The cessation, of life,
the death of one filament,
that filament hardens and crumbles,
cleaving itself from the tapestry of our lives,
and from the lives, it touched.

Leaving silent and unknown breaks,
in the history of others, and ourselves
the chards of those filaments mingle,
with the deaths of all those who have,
died before us.

Those inexplicable chards of filaments,
become the tongues of the dead,
telling their tales to the ears of the living,
in a raucous shriek of silence.