Solace

This week's poem, as always, with a touch of Aphantasia.

Like music,
pictures will never 
repeat themselves
on a screen     
in my mind.

The sound 
of even great trumpets
will fade 
into mere melody,
floating,
solo.
 
Pictures do likewise,
and wander, overcast 
by unmade links of whispers.
Only silence
and dark woods
await them.

I count their aspects
to revive their ghosts
and bones clack together
in tones I alone can hear.
Humming to myself
in the dim quiet

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Please share this with any aphants you might have in your life. I am highly curious to know if any of this resonates with others whose mind’s eyes are dark.

—Alex

My initial post has more about Aphantasia. Have a look, and the poems might make a different kind of sense.

Glimpses at the Dark