Voices Poem by Eric Cockrell

our love is spillt
onto winter's dead earth.
amid the rubble of
decaying leaves, and
unnamed frost...

only an echo
of living remains;
and the promise
born in memory
is not enough.

the arms and legs
of our passion
cut up as firewood
and left to dry.

our cries of hunger
diminished, fade
into the sounds of the wind
freezing the panes
of windows locked in death.

epitaphs scratched in stone
and children that took wing...
now voices no longer familier
speak of nothing, or
dont speak at all.