When our stock of words depletes,
And we’re sitting all alone,
The midnight hour has come & gone,
And a thick silence groans.

This is the time of the second death,
Of time falling forever out of line,
Quietly, the voices of the dead coagulate,
Here, inside my mind.

I cannot block the voices, 
Or their words upon the wing,
The shifting light of day breaks
As the winter birds sing.