Drink deep this echoing silence,
the winds that touch us no more,
the curses of dreams, remembered
upon waking and terrible.
Those things we have not been,
ghosts clinging like dried
sweat upon our skin, sounds
we still hear when the voices
that spoke them out into
gloom are long since gone.
2 comments:
ghosts clinging like dried
sweat upon our skin
What an image!
A fascinating contemplation of "residues."
MB,
Thanks for coming over. Looks like a mighty tough dry spell at my comments windows. I'm glad that you liked the piece. I'm super busy right now, but I'll try to make it over to your site sometime this week.
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