Nobody must talk
To you
For eight years
He said
And there had been
No other words
Than the rattle of snores
And the clackety clack
Of the sleeper train
And then
He got up
And got off
And was gone
And maybe
There was a hand shake
No profanities
And unfortunately
No more words
Of wisdom
In his tongue
Or anyone else's
And I was left
There
Amongst the flickering
Candles
And the hissing
Of a recently
Boiled egg
And I wondered
Where this path
Might lead
Where these words
Might
Go
And was left
With nothing more
Than the moonlight
Spying into
An open window
And the sound left
When there is no one else
Present
But you
And your thoughts
And the shadows
Of your memory
Trying to make
Sense of words
That might
Or might not
Have been spoken
In the dying embers
Of the last cigarette
Or drop of wine
Or loose semblance
Of that thing
That once
You might have called
A sense
Of the ringing
Of
Your
Soul