Voices taunt from the mountain top,
Not echoes, or Whip Poor Wills, 
Not ancient mysterious ghosts. 
Noises pound inside a mourning mind
Hammering the skull, dimming reality. 

Pain one cannot touch or stanch, 
Vacancy not visible or palpable. 
Empty kitchen drained of warmed air,
Broom gathering cobwebbed trash
Pans neglected on cold burners.

She was sick, alone, hungry for release.
I was jealous, greedy, holding a dream. 
Why was there no warning, no place to hide? 
Death’s sad secret held from the living. 
Would we give up too soon, ruin the balance? 

K. Bruce Florence