The Foregone Man

Lives in a soundless land

His raspy, painfully-dry, whispers, raises the hairs on the back of your neck

Turn round swiftly, but, you’ll be sure to see through him

Stand idly by, & jolts of spine-tingling bolts will tie your insides up in knots

The memory of music sustains him

His inability to hear speech or speak clearly, frustrates him to barron depths others soberly fear to tread

Though, be not too afraid of this near-invisible apparition-

For *this* forgone man is you, in another time and land:

Whispering truths, you, as yet, choose not to hear or wish to understand.