Voices
The calendar's pages fade and fall, like leaves on a seasonal tree.
Every day similar, every week another echo of the week before.
From memory, her voice calls - distant, indistinct, like wind through the leaves,
stirring up the forgotten hopes.
The movement, of its own accord is frightening - to take a step across the chasm
of disbelief is to realize you've always been falling.
To turn the page, before it falls.. is strength you never possessed,
to catch it on the way down is to acknowledge your own downward spiral, so you sit...
watching the days blend to weeks to years... straining ears, for the voice that never embodies
...for the return that never returns, for the time that never untimes, for nothing solid ever stays.
Every day similar, every week another echo of the week before.
From memory, her voice calls - distant, indistinct, like wind through the leaves,
stirring up the forgotten hopes.
The movement, of its own accord is frightening - to take a step across the chasm
of disbelief is to realize you've always been falling.
To turn the page, before it falls.. is strength you never possessed,
to catch it on the way down is to acknowledge your own downward spiral, so you sit...
watching the days blend to weeks to years... straining ears, for the voice that never embodies
...for the return that never returns, for the time that never untimes, for nothing solid ever stays.