Poem, Sagas, Short story, Weekend

The whispering echoes.

Whispering in sleep the echoes come. With senses deprived of light or words and left alone with fluid thoughts, the memories of experience and blood come.

Like stories from another world, like lives of a thousand others, the images and words dance behind closed eyes.

As though it s the pillow upon which I rest my head is a conduit through which to see through the eyes of a stranger and know their lives and hopes.

But so many will come, so many at once, so many more than a dream could alone, as though past and present combine to show a future which may be one day, as inevitable as the dawn and the dusk.

The echoes whisper, too far from their source to ever dream of being shouted again.

The echoes whisper, as gold dust speckled within the silt hoping to show its glory when washed from its dull surroundings.

The echoes whisper, not to distract or deter but in hopes that they would be remembered.

But there is so much to remember, and so much more to be forgotten.



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