spaces in between

walking on strange shores, between unpleasant dreams
i sense you calling -  
softly, ever so softly
what do you whisper? i cannot make it out,
you're far, so very far now, perhaps you ought to shout?
are you a spectre? did i conjure you from vague recollection
half-memories and rust?

but waking will not banish you, i've half-remembered you before
never, ever, catching up - 
i feel your spirit, nothing more
do you understand, my phantom? why we cannot touch, nor speak
even in our waking lives, i am bound and mute 
in all those spaces in between

silence is my slow disease

was that supposed to be a compliment?

the master now, of retrospect, I wish to give my explanation
but silence is my slow disease, and ever my damnation. 
why did you play at make believe, when our paths first inter-crossed?  
do I bear a chain around my neck, my own white albatross? 
i'm running through the darkness and cannot find the way
the wind is howling bitterly, and we're caught up in the frey
... i do not have a game to play, i never mastered slight of hand... 
but, somehow, you seem to think that this is what I planned