TALKING WITH THE DEAD

These dreams are memories of many births, lives, and deaths that I had to forgive. So many people and things are speaking to me now, and I do not know how. At first, I thought I was losing my mind until I looked at the time and remembered this is when the dead choose to speak louder than the weak moving through my head faster than light or sound. I hold my breath in my sleep, but the dead dig deep until I'm found.

When I came back, I always wondered why I slept with white noise in the background, and I always asked myself why it seemed that I was haunted and why these words of my poetry did not seem to be mine. Then I notice the stories of a few and many broken hearts on these pages.

So many damn letters wanting to be worded, so many stories coming through me waiting their turn to be heard, but why must they go through me in the middle of the night when I escaped death's reality? What did I see that now the others speak of why was a given the sword, the shield, and this robust glove without knowing what needs to be said from the living until this moment was dead?