In the shadows that falter somewhere. Somewhere the ghosts whose cries of solitude and despondency cuts through the air–shrill, sad.
While we become restless–because of the thousand faces we see in the mirror. The million and one voices that we hear when we are alone.
It is all there. We are at a loss maybe.
In each greeting, we hear whispers.
From a vantage point we stand alone–hearing the bleeding world howl.
And from there we hear the birds being happy.
And from there we hear dreams coming true.
And songs and music.
And death and whispers.
Let there be silence.
Let there be dark.
The visible vapor. Is it mist? Where does it come from?
Now it rises.
Now it turns dark.
Now it dissolves in thin air–making it thick.
Now it rises again.
Where does it come from?
IS it my soul?
It comes and it rises–dissolving into air.
It leaves me–there while i stand at the vantage point.
It’ll come back to me–i know.
Is it heading towards salvation?
There it rises–like mist.
There is smoke in my face–and it is me.
So i keep standing there–at the vantage point…listening to the silence