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I am cold
when I have
discourse with
the dead.  I sacrifice
amounts of busy; I lose
a modicum of living.  These
are home to grave communiques,
framed by ice and iron. 

Voices murmur from far below.
They groan in plaintive rumble.
I breathe deep and speak slowly,
enunciate clearly, respectful
of those souls gone before. 

I strive for meetings of the mind,
for banter beyond bathos, for
satisfying ceremony.  Images
flash: funeral, hearse, coffin.
I convey optimism, yet now
and then my voice will
break.

I strain to listen, to respond
for fear I will not do my part.
Dead are often evanescent;
like the wind-blown smoke
that fades.  Then I am left
unsatisfied, even though
I know, deep down, that
I tried my best.  Dead
will offer less.  Oft
times they do not
speak, except
to whisper.


32 Lines
Writer’s Cramp Winner
10-28-17