They gather in the grooves, soft and unseen,
A chorus of echoes where thoughts have been.

A flicker, a murmur, a doubtful refrain,
A whisper of truth, beneath the strain.

One hums of longing, of futures untold,
Another recalls the missteps of growing old.

Change the world!—Or get back on track!
Feed your ambition!—Or maybe have a snack?

You're a genius!—You haven't a clue!
Everything's fine!—You're doomed, you're through!

Who do I trust, when they all sound like me?
Are they guides, are they ghosts, or just reverie?

Do I hush them, drown them, let silence swell?
Or listen and learn what they long to tell?

Their words are noted, I must agree,
Yet still, they whisper, persistently.

Maybe they linger, not to confine,
But to question, to challenge, to help me refine.

And perhaps within them, tangled and wild,
Lies the voice of my truest self, reconciled.