“the death of the image of my own life”
-Roland Barthes
The voices’ cacophony abates slowly
into a hushed whisper between friends;
the frantic caws and suppositions ebb
like the soft susurrations of the sea
rhythmically wash along a darkened shore.
The long list of self recriminations,
snuffing after me like hounds baying
beneath an October moon, have faded,
and I am left waiting upon the dawn
within a fragile calm of my old silences.
(March 2, 2015)
subtext 