Let The Dead Speak

other voices dwell in this vagrancy;
a vacancy of night and day: sea-born
they come, – talk, affirm, doubt;

their colloquies mesh
against the iron law; gated proclamations
hazarded, worth all thinking, –

long and hard; bitter words
manifested, now and then;
for all the care we give them

in our stone house of the dead;
this hollow core where time,
full and emptied out;

its heightened depths, a sphere
rounded and hollow; whose bones
peer above the rim, the heaving

of an afternoon, eye socketed stares
gazing inward to the sea; memory
of these dark leaves, scattered, lost;

a meeting place they’ve sought,
so well and real; influenced anguish,
testament, a cherished myth of solitude:

broken now – that communicative tribe,
dwelling, silent; night-bound inhabitants,
they trek the length’s long meridian south;

thought and passion spent, at last
they come back to us, their lives
sweet light hefted in song and fire:

tempered flare against sudden grief and despair,
in mirth or spite, keeping us speech-wise
against cropped scorn and sounds of certain doom.

– Steven Craig Hickman ©2015 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.

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