Whisper
By Elton Wildermuth, 1998
Call me up a whisper
of the damned, demented places
where the solemn, staring faces
of the children of desire
turn to ashes, rags and tatters
in the last emancipation
as the embers of creation
flicker faintly, slowly fade.
When you call my name, I do not listen.
When you cry to me, I am not there.
When the silence howls and teardrops glisten,
then I hear your whisper like a prayer.
Call me up an echo
of that elemental yearning,
primal longing, passion burning
like an all-consuming fire,
after everything that matters
fades to distant recollection,
silhouettes and dim reflection
and the whisper of the blade.
This is not the end
of all the songs man sings.
This is not the end
of all our songs ...