A pantoum
There will be voices that call themselves yours.
Without faces, they could belong to ghosts.
They may be your words; they may be an illusion.
I don’t know- language is my fortitude and fault.
They could be ghosts, whispering phantoms.
If I could ask them, I don’t think that I’d dare.
Because my language is faulty yet a fortune.
I spill all attempts to say something beautiful.
I don’t think I would dare ask who is speaking.
The quiet is a sort of kindness, anyway.
Spilling my attempts to say something beautiful
I would not want to hear. I do not want to hear.
Anyway, the quiet is a sort of kindness.
The words may be yours; you may be an illusion.
I do not want to hear. I do not want to hear them.
Voices without faces that call themselves mine.
Playlist // nostalgia
