Google Poem

Linda Franklin


What Is An Echo But A Return?
For Emitte

The echo seemed to have some occupancy of space
beyond its present, although the echo seemed to be
something that should not have had any echo.
But his echo seemed to come back and back;
seemed to come back from the grey.

The echo seemed to be louder than the original, yet
the sound was rendered indistinct.
It seemed to shed a tear, and seemed to sigh.
The echo seemed to come from my left, at the very end.

Why would that be? Something that should not be there,
something that should not have had any echo at all,
should not be lost. Need not be lost.
This echo cannot be lost or gained,
nor shall it be lost and perish.
Dark anniversaries cast a gloomy shadow.

I am not stained with shadows;
silence is stained with echoes.
It is simple to wipe off the darkness that
each night seems to darken more,
darken as the echoes fade, until the last trace
disappears in heavy shadow.

The echo should not be singled out for fear of fear.
The echo is simply falling into place.
Splatters or flows, it leaves behind echoes of its presence,
a stain of grey in space.
Erasure is literal, but even then it leaves a stain.
He seems to come back and back.


Linda Franklin (Barkinglips) is a Baltimore artist writer who uses shadows, stains, fossils, bones, reflections, smears and half-sensed remnants to help her prove reality.  Otherwise she is too emotional, and too crazy.  See one of her blogs, that tells how she uses phrase searches for occasional writing.