Reflections at 4 A.M.
A tattered piece of cloth
Murmurs heard through walls
remind one of insects gathering
for a feast.
The stitching is not magic,
nor the faint voices real.
The tattered cloth is blue,
denim perhaps, but the light is too
faint to tell. The voices,
inaudible from time to time,
react to the harshness of the wind
beyond their window.
But I cannot tell either.
Whether the tattered blue denim,
for I am sure it is denim now,
is real, or if the voices are
speaking to me.
The tattered, blue faded denim speaks volumes
of Blake and Shakespeare,
but the voices,
the murmurs I can barely make through
the wind, they say nothing.
No longer even murmurs now,
only brief whispers, short, unforgiving breaths,
harsh and irretrievable breaths, that say no more
than a piece of cloth would in dim light.