Voiceless

Straining to hear those ethereal voices, 

Swept upon the eastern winds, velvet,

Light and indecipherable as the air,

Breathing in the sounds of a past,

Lingering and waiting to be heard.

Sorrowful in their emptied hollow,

Desiring to be seen all at once,

Their shells echoing in eternity,

Obfuscating their own reflections.

Settling debts of the blooded,

Learning their current curse.

And knowing no other peace,

Besides those bestowed.

Author's Note

A short and random poem that I wrote in about 5 minutes. This is a very rough draft. Still adding more to this just unsure as how to proceed. :)

Reviews

[Poetic License]

Serious bonus points for the use of obfuscating! I like it. I like the path through raw thought, dumping and seeing what comes out. I wish you had not stopped! I was taking my own foothold by the last stanza and ready to lope forward into..... well, now, that would be the question, now wouldn't it.

Ok - brace yourself, because I here I ramble. I just read it again, and I get to this:

"Sorrowful in their emptied hollow,
Desiring to be seen all at once,
Their shells echoing in eternity,
Obfuscating their own reflections."

And all I can think about is a story an art teacher told me long, long ago, in a galaxy far, far away - about Van Gogh. Vincent Van Gogh was a second son, the first son had also been named Vincent. When Vincent 1 died, he was buried at the church cemetery. When Vincent 2 came along and survived, he would walk along the church cemetery each Sunday and see his own name on a tombstone - Vincent Van Gogh.

THAT - is where you took my mind. Into that darkened cemetery plot, where a tiny seed of madness managed to fester, grow and devastate a master of art. "Sorrowful in their empty hollow" - an empty grave so far Van Gogh may have been concerned, a yawning maw of dark waiting for him to step inside. "Desiring to be seen all at once," the dead Vincent wishing to live through his brother. And, perhaps he does, through Van Gogh's darkness and mental illnesses manifested on canvas. "Their shells echoing in eternity," at this point, I see Vincent suddenly and inexplicably begin signing his paintings... Vincents Van Gogh. "Obfuscating their own reflections," and in the end you are left wondering - which Vincent is which. Did the living giving over to possession by the dead? His mental illness drew too fine a line to tell.

Told you to buckle in. You have officially been afflicted by one of my ravings. Thank you for the wonder journey upon which you took my imagination.

[Lovecraft]

Thanks. Sorry for commenting so late. A very bad year for my family and I.

[Poetic License]

Sending healing thoughts and prayers. Sending you peace.