Full blooded they appear
Speaking with my voice, the words I’d say
Those dreams, the dreams of the dead
Seem so satisfying, until they talk.
They, the phantoms of our fantasies
Drift like jet trails; scarring skies
Words etched by inkless pens
Waiting, always awaiting.
The Poet adores that void
Where they frame thoughts beside stars
And recreate Byzantium
But behind that void
Awaiting, always waiting
There are echoes
Who will only answer us, as us.