The Past

Voices like yellow decrepit paper

Beckon beyond the mist/

Something reaches for him in the night

And greets him with a foul kiss/

Waves crash, a million little hands pull him in

And nothing new, except the sea of unreality; 

Red blooms of rose under wet eyelids

Light fading

And the music softer

                          and

                              Softer

Drifting down

              and

                   Down
Where garbled voices mumble the future.