Believe me: there is nothing evident
found in the wild wind’s sad apology
that echoes the swift, mad accident
of an empirical chronology.
The sound careens off the walls and multiplies,
pale murmurs slipping along an endless cavity
where caught words glow and briefly shine, like fireflies,
then gently fade in obscurity.
02 MAR 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, droighneach, echoes, Irish verse forms, poetic forms, silence, time, wind
With one word aloud,
the illusion is broken
as the echo fades.
So deep, this still well,
that a small sound is strengthened
and seems so much more.
But echoes will fade;
and in the gaping silence
words do not survive.
The illusion is
that there is one who listens.
Without sound, who knows?
What use is speaking
in such an empty cavern?
My ego needs this?
21 JUL 2006
