Lot of Echo

By Mark Miller I wait for her anxious glare To give a stare, Or acknowledgment, That I am here or over there Such beauty unoticed, By people owned dreams. Face of angel did startle the amputated heart Racine composure set no worry One in a billion stand of stoic rock Of one who belongs of ancient tell Saintly eyes give away heaven scorn hell Of being and longing nostalgia kills the hope Hold fast the Props contrived by antiqued coarse gone lost Do we long for Midnight's death In our hour glass filled vain Or search the space in spite of time absent valor Staring into narcissists pond all are alone with echos vacant essence