Who Tells Our Story

I sit upon and fix my thought on the distant landscape,
listening to the sounds of the city telling stories,
the driller roaring in an unknown language,
the wind in between the buildings humming the same tune,
the streets telling our stories yet not really understood.

I penetrate the mechanism perpendicular to the point of reference,
take a chance in understanding he that tells our stories,
why and when do we get hear them...

I partake in picture perfection
prolonging the moment of hearing the story teller singing in my ears,
stories that awaken my fears,
tears I weap as the horizon becomes blare,
words turning sour as the tell-lie vision recites confussion,
colliding phylosophies,

I listen to the story tellers voice
yet not seeing nor knowing his origins,
he give just a portion of the story and the rest is ommission.