Old Stone

The voice eludes me.

I still hear it. It sings to me in the quiet moments; the intimate moments; the moments in which I most crave solitude. It calls to me. My siren song. I don't know what it means, but I can't shake it. Sometimes it whispers absolute truths, sometimes it whispers veiled lives. Sometimes it tells me that poetry is the answer, other times it tells me that poetry is my doom.

Tonight, I try to be stone. Tonight I don't need walls. There's nothing inside me now. I can sit here for years, ten thousand years, and be alone.

But still the voice sings. To be stone isn't enough. I need to be something else. Something warm. Something living. I hang my head: maybe I even need to be something human.