My Voice

If my voice is captured in
waves that
resonate through the air
in an effort to
communicate something of
who I am and
who I wish to become,
Where do my thoughts go when I die?

We spend hours each day in conversation but we are limited by each breath
to confine our words to the capacities of our lungs.
We temporarily preserve our thoughts for the
eternity of emptiness that awaits.

We stock shelves of compliments only to see them go undelivered,
preserving our words for perfect moments that never appear.

Hoarders of potential, we reserve our individuality
and ridicule the brave few whose dying breaths are not
drawn out sighs of remorseful silence.