A Whispering Dead.

I have become so thin, so pale and faint. I am an image of smoke, a whisper and a still scent. My color is not to be defined and my taste is so mild. I am, am not. I drink and am drunk. I long to fly and yes I do. I was pierced and torn and scarred, pressed down and crushed. My breath was squeezed out of me, my life was snatched and pulled away. All that I am was buried long ago, alive I was but time outrun me. I was forced to dissolve, pushed to be consumed by nature and forced to disperse my being into the stillness of the soil. Roots sucked me in and I was no more.

The Life I saw and the way I went turned me into something, not someone. Stripped me of my identity and deleted my name. I became nothing, yet i am. Though I was blindfolded, chained, castrated, torn apart and burnt to carbon, reduced to my elements; I go to places no one can, I talk and listen to secrets few know about, I breed an offspring that no one can seize, I move things nothing else can. I am no ghost but yes I have become one.

I brag, to him who reads, but deep inside I mean it not. If my heart was ever felt, pride wouldn't be found there. But how could it be ever felt? It's so faint like a smoking thread, of a whispering dead.