The Occured Poem by Emmanuel Stone

Clocks keep on running
and sand keeps on falling
but the patterns that drift in the air
And lie on the ground
are not of their origin.
Savages in the halls of time
changing the pictures on the walls
Rearrangement for aesthetic benefit
Art turns fact perverse.
When in search of truth we turn to the past
Though all we shall find are the lies
For what is on display has been created,
the Occured has been hidden away.