The Ghosts of Silence

Stone on top of the ground after Cesar Vallejo Jay Sizemore is dead and no one knew him. He died without fanfare, as so many do, just another day of the week, another slap of thin limbs against window glass. He wrote his words upon a cloud, soon forgotten, like the scent of rain. The computers hum onward, electric ant farms, cutting the tunneled circuits of loneliness. I died every day, but on the last one I lived. The brutal, unforgiving tide of the ego withered my fingers like figs in a cursed tree, hovering over the disarranged alphabet of ghosts, each corpse fooled into whispering to themselves.