Voices

I miss voices
I shall never again hear
Among the living.
They are as gone
As smoke
As dry as dew at noon day.

In memory they yet speak
Though even there
Their once distinct tonality
Is diminished.

I know the names
Of each phantom
But what are phonics
To the dead?
They cannot answer
And to speak the names
Fires the burn of separation.

I sit most nights
Smoke my pipe
And listen
To the wind blow across the earth.
In the rushing whirl
I hear voices
I will never again hear
Among the living.