The Loneliest Voices
At night the loneliest voices
crystallize in moonstruck blue.
The nodes litter the landscape
until dawn when they dissolve
and leave small puddles whispering.
If I could transcribe those voices
I could study grammar and syntax
and write something indelible.
The seasons roil like van Gogh’s
sleepless years of painting.
Houses sell to strangers who peel
old wallpaper and unearth bones
of someone’s forgotten ancestors.
Engines spit up their oil and die.
I arise every morning and brew
coffee the color of my dreams.
Such dark portends nothing
but settles in me with a sigh.
After the sunlit hours pass
the voices arise from the earth.
The geological event occurs,
as always, and I feel the crystals
abrade me with their prisms
until I sleep an innocent sleep.
Author: William Doreski
Photo: simas Mo on Unsplash
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