The echos’ cacophony perplexes;
each false note harmonizes with discord,
a seeming pattern like rain on puddles.
A bending of self around the shifting
context of the time we find ourselves in.
The barrage persists all day and all night;
the words blast upon my psyche like hail
pummeling. Flowers bend into the mud.
I walk along barren ground calling out
names at random in hopes that someone hears:
the wind, the storm, the silence devours.
What words we use to justify ourselves
are lost beneath the onslaught of the world.
An old path blends into a mottled ground.
Birds whip between rain and leaves, singing songs
beneath the backbeat of the storm. Lightning
scars what night is visible through the trees.
No one is near to hear these words I speak;
nevertheless, I say them anyway.
The mumbled sounds mingling with falling trees
somewhere beyond the distant horizon;
is anyone there? I storm off to look
ever hopeful that around the next bend,
over the next hill, I will find the one
true voice that has lured me on for years:
a siren singing between the echoes.
Where we go, there we go; there we grow.
(from primogenitive folly, August 2001-April 2003)