I move across a silence

that seems to be

the empty plane of oblivion-

a land whose primal languors

afflict the will,

whose fallen light and dream-horizoned sky

proffer the world's faltering memories.

I hear a voice that sings

some old-world song,

magical and clear

or catch a glimmer

of a fox darting into the darkness,

A silence,

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

moving in moonlit saraband.

A voice that only I can hear

that sings to me,

and now I must muse

on passions that unfold,

and the ghosts that dwell

on the other side of the sea,

weeping in the night

as they call to me.

Yet I cannot leave this place,

as I stare down

at my own lifeless eyes,

wondering, wondering

whatever became

of the man I was before.