voices are distinct, such as we, think about how much goes into a particular voice at any particular time, time, yes, time, genetics, body type, the evolution of ears that are around for the voice to enter, the endless amount of variables that makes a voice unique, because they all are, and then suddenly, like all things, there is silence, that distinction, that amalgamation of so many things… is gone. Never replaced by the same, there is no way to duplicate the recipe, sure, one can try, and maybe even bake something close or near a clone, but never, never to be exactly the same, so that voice has gone out, like a snuffed flame, once a life consumed, a remnant only in memory of a distinct sound, a singular voice, gone out, a golden disc, destined to roam the stars…
voices disappear
voices go out
like lights-
once guided, gilded
gilded lighthouse that surveyed the shore
gone, swallowed by the surf of years
and perhaps not all are lights
but some are
we come to trust
to guide
lessons learned
beards grow long, and grey
salt in the air
whether calm or fray
a beam we rely on
even when we know the way, so well
a voice gone
taken back into the sea
a light out
never replaced to be
notes… in tribute to my father, been a year now, he was not perfect, so neither am I. But his voice, the noise, the frequency… there is silence in that space since, his sound’s occupation is absent there… and is missed.
Shades of My Garden 