A Year of Poems – Day 17

I don’t listen to voices for a living;
I create them.
The brain is a cavernous thing.
It will only ever have one occupant.
Most brains have been built up,
padded to prevent echoes from building up.
It can be a lonely place to live
without decorations hanging on the wall.
I recommend hanging paintings for remembrance.
There is a family photograph taken shortly after my
sister’s birth hanging above my central cortex.
Hanging gently on the walls of my cerebellum
are the pictures of my friends to visit when I’m distant.
At the core of my being is the tapestry woven from
the threads of thought and experience.
I go there when I’m so cold I’ve forgotten who I am.
There are relics in a well-organized mind.
Tokens of faith.
Touchstones to clutch when all else is in disarray.
All this keeps your hermit’s home
from resounding with the echoes of your own voice.
But perhaps we should all have one room
where the walls and floors are bare
where we come to speak and hear the echoes.
Where we can sing harmony with ourselves
and learn to sing our song to others.

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