Echo

Frown at your weakness, it’s human – not personal
My failing and your victory
No one will tell this story
Like every man before you and
Every following after
So vain, so pitious
Time – The Father
So relentless
It’s Fashion to be grieved
and Style to be distraught
It’s Art to be depressed
but what if it’s all for naught?
The reality of those things blooms in the heart of the unfortunate soul
Without style without grace
Sanity, into the night, stole…
Question desperation and question jealousy
Like rot and decay smell on a corpse still fresh
The result is a heartless human
No soul, only flesh
It’s a journey to that state
call it obsession… or possesion
of the memories of distant past
Sometimes comforting, on occasion: alarming
but either is corrupting when dwelled on
repititiously, a droning voice in the back of your mind
Home movies that do not end
And those who were friends now look like fiends
Can you taste the tears
of hours and years?
A realization of the worst of fears
When the world held still
All in harmony
Not one single note off-key
it begs, it pleads, it haunts your memory
Is that what it means to be a person
or is it just an echo of humanity?