Dead Voices

I do not sleep often, but when I do, I dream.

They are always there: the same faces, the same voices.

My faces, my voices.

Sometimes they are angry; their time past and they covet mine. Occasionally they are magnanimous, whispering advice and warnings. Or they maliciously trail through my memories of death.

They jostle and fight and scream and demand acknowledgment. Snarling, like trapped animals, they struggle for a scrap of consciousness.

They gloat cruelly, reminding me that I will join them.

And when I wake, shaking uncontrollably, I hate them.

And I wish I could forget them all.