From the flesh it once called home,
All that was left was a voice,
And the voice made not a sound.
It hovered in the silent
Rooms of living consciences.
There were no other remains,
No apparitions, no bones.
The clothes the voice once haunted
Hung mutely in the closet.
Nothing rattled the cupboards.
There were no chills in the air.
Only the voice in the ear
Of mind moaned, I, too, lived here.
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.