We nostalgically identify the present with the past Pulling out dog-eared emotional dramas, Worm-eaten molars, Unfinished stories from yesteryears, and The pupae of self-determination, Hoping to create a perfect world of happiness, But we soon realize that the past itself Has no significant relationship with the present, It's all a make believe world, A set of Pecksniffian lies we fabricate For our own momentary contentment.
A true denouement, as imagined, Is not possible in real life but Only in literary representation Where we have the freedom to rearrange, Where real pain can be eradicated In the corridors of symbolic configuration, Where we can give a meaning to our yearnings, Where stories can be completed Through an altered gaze, Where a surrogate simulacrum can be created, Where birth can quickly sprout wings.
What is gone forever is gone forever, The fictitious baubles will crumble Like sweet butterfly wings sticking to fingers, Even conclusions can be altered in a Dickensian way, Just look at different versions of Pip-Stella relationship, The medium will decide the protean nature of pain, Control the emotions of the past And in truly Auerbachian terms Provide a figural representation To all heroic sagas from Ulysses To what have you.
