A song plays,
inside my head,
with words for me,
and me alone,
and sings of the dead.
Echoes and whispers,
a shadows voice,
singing lullabies and children’s songs,
but sung for ghosts,
of ghosts,
and reflections in the mirror.
The music plays in the place I live,
and keeps me from the used to be’s,
no longer hearing calls to return
from those that love me.
Those doors are closed
and all the songs are mine,
and mine alone.
Under the blankets
in a bed I never leave,
words are sung,
and nobody hears but me.
I drift in the space of the words,
and the music played along,
to wonder,
"Am I dead too"?
But the songs play with no answers,
to a question from another time,
an existential answer to
"I am"?
"I hear, therefore.....
what"?
Songs play,
and sing of the dead.