The Echo Returns Not

In the stillness of a twilight hour, Where shadows stretch and silence grows, I call out to the fading light, But the echo returns not, as it goes. Beneath the boughs of ancient trees, Whispers linger on the breeze, Yet every word I cast in air Is swallowed whole by the unseen seas. I stand beside the silent brook, Its waters murmur tales of old, But every ripple fades away, And the stories remain untold. Once, the laughter danced like fire, A symphony of joy and mirth, But now the notes are lost in time, A quiet ache, a heavy dearth. I wander through the halls of memory, Where portraits fade and colors blur, Each face a ghost, each smile a sigh, Yet the echo returns not, as I stir. I reach for moments, grasping thin air, Fingers trailing where dreams once soared, But the chasm between us widens wide, And the heartache feels like a sword. In the gardens where we once would tread, Petals fall like tears from the sky, Each bloom a whisper of what was said, Yet the echo returns not; it bids goodbye. Time moves on, a relentless tide, Washing away the footprints left, And though I search for what remains, The past is cloaked in a quiet theft. So I learn to listen to the silence, To find beauty in the void, For though the echoes may not return, In the stillness, I am not destroyed. I carry forward the seeds of hope, Plant them deep in the soil of my heart, For every end births a new beginning, And from the silence, I shall not part. The echo returns not, but I remain, A vessel of love, a keeper of light, In the absence of sound, I hear the truth— In the depths of the night, I find my flight.