I can still hear you,
words of an old truth,
fading sounds of prophecies trickle off an archaic tongue
through lips of decaying youth.

I am still here for you,
for me, wavering, fading
but my shadow stays again.
Alive and morphing in pain
from innocence to what?
Changing is existence and existence is changing.

And I still dream of you.
Whispers of a prelapsarian idea
slither into today from the womb of yesterday
and I cling to it,
the dream,
the boy,
if only to stop him dying,
stop him fading into silence.
So his words echo into the attic of my heart
and do not bounce into oblivion - whisperless.