The Echo Returns Not

I sailed an olive boat into the center of the sea alone to find a cure for my loose heart not the spring-back type, noble with elasticity but leap-forward lecher-wild binding to any skirted frame and drooping hemline like friendly burrs in shrubbery lanes sat in an olive boat drifting mid-seas unaccompanied but for Hope to land a cure upon my knees to heal my lousy, narcissistic zeal an insatiable human thinks like a possessed apiary an overwrought dam I tonsured my beatific locks as bare as Samson hoodwinked by his pet Flytrap tossed reflective surfaces, anything that would give my face a way to self-seduction safe in a roasted green-pea float lost like dead at sea to recover a voice that scarcely has been mine its echo returns not through bursting towns busy at trade hawkers cawing, hucksters' crow delirious, chattering cashboxes traffic snakes wending Nowhere do they end in time always metal and rust ferric towering towers, condominium pride, noisome domiciles, toxic steel cages barring the success of this voice~ the sound of your mind drowned inside the urban brawl not a jot of space to reckon nor conciliate blushing-rushing-golden consciences an echo may not return to its sender then ~ a man with no name.