Echoes

Full blooded they appear Speaking with my voice, the words I’d say Those dreams, the dreams of the dead Seem so satisfying, until they talk. We, the phantoms of our fantasies Drift like jet trails; scarring skies Words etched by inkless pens Waiting, always awaiting. The Poet adores that void Where they frame their thoughts by the stars And recreate Byzantium But behind that void Awaiting, always waiting There are echoes Who’ll only answer us, as us.