Liturgy of the Wind

They loiter in memory's mausoleums, old chants, those gilded liturgies, ready to resurrect and eat through the ear with promises under the finery of polished myth. Grafted onto our very bone, these structures scaffold history and who we are. Now, stripped of flesh, they moan and rattle the dark when given voice by savage winds. I have heard the haunting echo left in the wake of their going. Emptied of substance, these vacated vaults house only noise from human ghosts. I have listened for the faint whisperings beyond the worn out replays of the dead, for something transcending numbers and name - hear only the wind. I keep telling myself this is enough.