scribing whispered words on paper
the ink flows out as the spirits curl in
and raise the transient voice ‘midst the din
of the world as my candle flames taper
from both ends the tallow’s vapor
the wick from both sides growing thin
thinner than the ghost’ sigh breathing within
the raw voice of which I am shaper
and the voices loom louder and stronger
to my ears as the world ceases to hear
but I shall not be their scribe much longer
to the world I cease to be here