voice

she heard her name called
once, when she was a child,
the voice has remained
haunting
it still whispers to her
so familiar, so real,
just out of reach
just out of sight
some times a shout
a tea cup drops from her hands
and shatters in the echo
she imagines her body falling,
so swiftly, so gracefully,
through air
without resistance of thought
the smash and crumble
liberating
breaking in the voice
returning to the voice
but for now
the voice remains
lurking,
taunting, the pretense of
a memory.

(C) Magenta Nero 2014