All I hear in far distant voices

is the complaint of Echo

as she strives to have Narcissus look

upon her tender loins and sigh

for one such as her, one such as her.

 

Echo, child of damnation

of her own accord, never one of

punished sound and fading rememberance

as the words splits and catches,

slowly disintegrating, integrating, grating, rating

and ever slowly decaying, just saying nothing

but I love you.

 

Echo, child of spirit,

I implore, do not play with the boy

who looks at you without the mirror

in hand…

…do not look upon him as a God, for there

is no substance in the flesh, for he

is weak and without material,

no essence, no wit to give you what you need,

an answer said with meaning,

the same as your own dear echo

but said with single voice…

 

Narcissus will never love you

as you

love, love, love, love

him.

 

Ian D. Hall 2015