"Crazy," they tell me
when I talk to them who whisper
the quiet whisperings softly on my mind.
I hear them busy with buzzing; the spoken,
the whimpering, weeping, mourning ones.
They stir my thoughts, whirl in their
whirlwind of emotion and confusion,
color my thoughts with shades of cobalt and crimson.
Call me insane, will they?
Those who eavesdrop on my silent
conversations with songs that surge
through my mind in the late of night
and bright of day.
They don't stop.
The hearers and buzzers both.
Come from inside, those needing to be heard.
Come from outside, those seeking to hear.
"Tis my gift," I cry, "alas, my curse."
My gift to hear and see those whom we call passed;
My curse to listen to those trapped here,
who reject the chorus of melancholy voices
sweetly whispering their dancing impressions
in my mind and on my ears.
Insane? Me? Never! Why?
Our immortal souls shed our mortal bodies
and we go on.
Sometimes to life.
Sometimes trapped in the nowhere place, mourning, crying, whaling our woes
To those with ears to hear.
To those with eyes to see.
To those like me.