And what more is an echo,
except a longing for sound to remain,
a fight against vanish.
A madman in a straight jacket,
bouncing off the walls of his room,
the walls of an alley way,
the mountains of his mind.
But my greatest sorrow is hearing the echoes,
of my ancestors bouncing off the walls of my heart,
unable to release them,
except by my pen,
but this echo,
is just a reverberation that no one understands,
much like that madman in reprimand.
A sound, crying, searching for it’s home.