Echo

Late in the murky evenings
and at night with its cold pale moon

When the shadows of silence have settled in
and that ceaseless din
of the busy day
has
finally
died
down

I am alone
with my thoughts.

Oh
the ranges they range

How they grin
and snarl
and bite
and tear
and shred

And gnaw away at a fragment
of myself, surrounded by emptiness

There's nobody there
There isn't anyone here

No guiding light
no guiding hand
no lantern in the dark
to lead the way

And I remember that it's always been like this
And a cold warmth suffuses the self
Sealing the lips of a thousand screaming shrieks and wails
That never truly stop.

What's left in the end
is not a bloody pulp
or pile of broken bones and hopes

but a steady
ringing
lingering

echo