The voices are all dead,
All my head now remembers is the statistics.
Another post.
A couple of likes,
Another day,
A march through conspicuous obsession,
Over faces,
Bodies,
And kind acts.
The voices,
That made me sing when the day was rough,
Made me dance when the music played,
Made me smile on petty jokes,
I don’t know when they faded away.
I carry a frame,
Soul bereft.
There is no spark,
The mind wide shut is a place so dark,
I shudder,
At the thought of visiting it again.
Perhaps,
And I hope,
When I sit down with Woolf or Barnes once more,
They shall get me back home I am sure.
The Mundane 