echoes

by jhon baker

pencil sketched broken winter twigs

haunted notes of an old love song

last of the winter stars.

I grinned sheepishly as the memory

of you echoed through –

death

sends its certain reverberations

through e’ry heart,

and this certainly through mine.

but I’ve nothing to sing,

and

nothing to hear.

there’re too many people –

and their murmuration end in

piercing tinnitus

because of nonsense

and

chronic pain.

the platitudes of willful resemblance