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