I hear the voices all the time.
Not the ruminations of a madman,
Though the teetering between that and this
Does blend equally. This syncopation between life
And death. The symptomatic fodder from loss.
All the voices I’ve imprinted of loved ones,
The cavernous chasm left from which to pluck
—A raucous laugh, an intimate’s whisper,
—The shading and tenor of familiarity.
There was a time when the orchestrated sounds of living
Were all around me. Lived. Felt. Even aspirational,
If love can do that… Does? Did?
Now there’s an island of silence before me,
Ghost whisperers floating in and out,
Glad-handing as they trespass.