I learned to live in silence,
long ago,
curled up in the warm spaces
between my breath.

The small footsteps
of the children upstairs,
echoing from within
as I inhaled...and exhaled...
recalling that the objects
which surrounded me,
had names.

Even so,
the name i'd been given,
it escaped me.

I had escaped.

Over time,
the wonder,
the mystery,  
the magic,
it seemed to fade.

What is left now,
is the memory
of those echos,
the footsteps of
the children upstairs,
grown and gone
and I think to myself,

was I ever even awake?

The cornstalks vanished overnight
Shaven fields once flowing, green and gold
Like Dad’s evening whisker stubble
Ghost limbs of the cornfield

Flocks of nomadic Ravens
Feast on the invisible
And scowl with those empty black eyes
Impervious to man’s judgment

And I think,

There is nothing as beautiful
Than the first snow on a barren field
Shadows playing with the evening light
And dance among the vacant mounds

What is it that causes us to romanticize people we don't know?

As if their lives are somehow different than ours, as of they don't silently cry themselves to sleep at night.