Debate

I hear your whispers called across distances.
I feel your treading feet.
But now my heart is impalpable to me,
A paper ghost of old instances.
And I summon to speak but my words grow old,
Taking wing in my throat:
They leave my mouth―empty puffs, bitten thin, unseen.
Silence holds her secrets, and at her whims,
I am swiftly without speech.

And so, at first light, I watched a great grey grew,
Staring still with hooded eyes;
Breaking free, to raise an alpha-dawn,
Struggling strains, as night rhyme dies.