21. The Poetic Eidolon
The place was made of stone and wood
And as we walked around it,
We heard many voices.
The past has entered the present in this place
And fear has grasped many,
But I know that these ghosts
Are just misunderstood.
Perhaps there is no sentience:
Just a recording that plays itself
Over and over and over.
Maybe it is weak;
Perhaps it is even strong,
But a poet
That takes solace in secrecy,
But desperately wants to be heard
In a twist of irony.
And so it reveals itself
Only to those who would listen.
Maybe there is some of it
In all of us.
