Why Blame The Echo?

There are certain things that still form a lump on my throat.

My present rejoinders to the farragos of the past being one of them.

The night is silent for cimmerian shade is too onomatopoeic to halt the sonic squeals that are benignly whacking past me.

The scream is loud enough to subdue the pain lying underneath.

The channel is wide enough to flow downstream.

I am dramatically immersed in my pool of self animation when I realized my actions were just a novelty! 

I’m just a soft soap that has been sallowed for a purpose and the ceiling is too near to squeeze me out.

I’m just trying to drape myself from my own stares at the pores that have been caused by the beating waves.

By digging earth I bury many of my mistakes.

Nobody has seen the doll that I lost in the grass.

Nobody has seen the earrings that I lost in the grass.