Voices In the Night

They wake me sometimes. Names, nonentities come out of the corners like leftover pipe smoke, jerking at my slumber, scratching at the soft circles I draw around my head. Spirits, pardon me; I am a dense dreamer! Transfer of consciousness slows down when aging dashes on. Inner sound and psychic sense don't mingle very well. Yet they persist; their whispers inarticulate, seductive for my mind, surreal-- breaking up my memories in fragments, bringing recollection only in a later dream, then never with a reason why. And I may reason why, convoke these shades just as I cry to you that I, too, reach with hollow hands across the bridge of consciousness until I die, and travel on the edge of time. I think that they are teaching me-- these voices. Systematically in silent, restless throbbing they prepare me, their own strength gaining as mine wanes. I think they watch, like tower control upon the homing planes. I think they know to what stupendous realm I go. ~