Echo
Portraits from ancient eternity conveyed in infinity
Random antediluvian traits from unfamiliar dynasties emerging in flash-lights
Raging fury of disconcerted frenzies relentlessly wrestle my soul
Blank memories needs to be filled with ancient time bed stories
Whom shall I call to narrate them to me?
The streets have learned the language of the illiterate
The walls have short evocative graffiti that mimics the echo never told
Dry summer air whispers sounds of stories my memories refuse to recall
Skin scrunches to the bone in the imperturbable of the night
Still, I desperately chase the cradle of the ricochet
The echo that ceaselessly haunts my sleeping mind
No philosophy is accurate enough to explain the sound of the echo
No artist can craft the actual essence of the echo
Shall I then conclude that this is a desperate search of untold ancient myths?
The crafts that already exists are not drawn to the image of man
The portraits are illustrative of a supper-human
The intricate interiors are convoluted from incorruptible source
Imperishable is essence of the echo
Incomprehensible to any mortal being but apprehensible to the immortal ever living,
And only Revealed to me!
