Peripheral whispers

During futile maintenance of the countenance,
Peripheral whispers of carelessness
Unexpectedly seep forth –
Barely there.
Phantom faces and places drift across mind’s eye,
Borne by indolent apathy.
“If I had …”
“Oh too late, too bad, so sad.”
Like illegible, lichen-encrusted tombstones,
Untethered names no longer hold meaning.
Stories with no one to tell them
Languish; become extinguished.
A brisk 6 am walk staves off the Winter chill.
Aboard the 300, meandering melancholic musings inspire this prose.