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
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