oblivion
Tired.
So tired.
My eyes fail
and my soul
gives up.
I am alone.
It is dark.
Am I dead?
I hear voices
echoing through
the consciousness
of time.
Messages, mostly,
sent to the forgotten
Or the dead.
But then
I hear your voice.
It stands alone,
firm, steadfast,
in the whirlwind of
words.
You are
whispering.
Are you
afraid
to be heard?
Afraid
someone will
take notice
and reprimand you?
Afraid,
maybe,
that I am not
listening?
I hear your words.
They surround me,
envelop me,
woven from the fine fabric
of your voice.
I hold on
to your words.
I am afraid
if I let go
I will cease
to exist;
lost to oblivion.
I wrap my fingers
around the words
that you whisper
into the night.
Your voice is
fading.
I am lost
in the darkness.
Am I dead?
Am I dreaming?
Where are you?
