Wordless – 55

There are
things older than words
dark, feral things
without form
that gather in my mind
and crowd my throat
pushing down
against the back of my tongue

Or, at times, they rest
thick and heavy
in the ends of my fingers
and the tip of my pen
as I try to write

even now.

 

Once upon a time, a wise man named Galen began writing 55 words on Fridays.  And he invited others to joined him.  Then one, sad day he left us.  But a good witch, Hedgewitch, took up the 55 and carried it for as long as she could.
I think of these people every time I manage to coax 55 words from wherever it is they come from.

Half Life

As I drift off to sleep I hear voices
like a radio playing, softly
in another room
just below
the threshold of understanding

In the morning
the voices are gone.
There is no radio
playing anywhere in the house
and so I go
about my day

Each night I listen
but I can never, quite hear
enough
to understand
and I cannot remember my dreams

 

This is written for the Sunday mini-prompt at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, where we have been asked to think and write about hearing voices.