Whisper-Less Evenings

I'm going to walk on out into the cruel winter rain and see if I can disappear into these streets of haunted anonymity. I can't look into the mirror any longer into my own eyes and find myself, whatever was left of me is threadbare; I'm as ragged as child's doll long abandoned. There were memories once of laughter and simple embraces by candlelight, there were delicate mist-like kisses that shattered me like the crush of rock from a crumbling hillside. Someone told me to discover myself in prayer, but is there an ancient deity that remembers me? Doesn't even spiritual memory grow faint? I'm consciously complacent in the face of my demise, I silently accept my fate on these whisper-less evenings.