Sometimes we listen

to things we cannot hear.


Lie on our backs;

with forgotten sight,

our mind washed and blank,

our thoughts swirling above,

in open space,

and silence

so vast and empty

that it carries

the echo of sound,

the echo of a song,

the music of the falling sun,

notes that glitter gold,

before drifting slowly

into frozen horizons.


We listen to voices,

drowned, and dead,

cold and shuddering,

beneath the earth.


We listen to voices,

yet unheard, and unknown,

but imagined.


We listen to sounds,

from an alien world,

foreign and abstract,

like the colors of the sunset,

from an alternate galaxy.


We listen to the meaningless,

until it has meaning.


2 thoughts on “Listening

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