How the Echo Filters Reality
In the hollow of my mind, the past sings loud,
a siren call bending time into ripples,
its voice twisting the air like fractured glass.
I chase the echoes, but they flee,
leaving shadows that whisper of truth
too sharp to touch.
The echo doesn’t lie, yet neither does it tell all—
its cadence steals clarity, weaving illusions
of what was, what could have been.
It filters the jagged edges,
blurring pain into a tolerable hum,
a melody of survival
shaped by hands unseen.
In its distortion, I find a mirror,
where my inner child peers back,
wide-eyed, still grasping for a voice
to match the quiet scream within.
The echo cradles her fears,
turning chaos into song
as the past learns to dance
to its own unraveling.
Here, in the resonance of what lingers,
I build a rhythm of now—
truth unfiltered, clear,
not by erasing the past,
but by hearing it through
and letting it rest.
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