Voices
The wind has emptied its spectral graves.
Grounded birds sing of wings.
Raccoons climb the sounds of trembling throats.
Cats no longer hunt but howl at nothing seen.
Lights flicker, minds darken,
hands grow pale in the lowering clime.
Are ghosts seeking themselves?
Perhaps they search for we rootless beings,
while the wind duets and croons
of lost and empty things.
Are we chaff and husks
in the tempests mouth - no,
it just feels that way
and this day’s voices speak of it.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2021
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