The echo returns not
I am but a rose—trembling in the twilight—
my petals folding into the silence of forgotten songs—my voice buried beneath the weight of earth that never cared—for my call. I stretch—reaching for the sun—
I no longer believe will return—but the light does not come—never will it come.
I cry out—not with sound—
but with an ache that settles deep in my marrow—
an ache not born of longing for the sun—but from the knowing that I have been abandoned—
by my own voice—my own echo.
The air is dying—with the weight of my breath—
and I wonder—is it I who am unworthy—of the melodies I relinquished from my lungs?
Is it I who have allowed myself to fade—to vanish into silence—growing louder with every passing hour?
Oh, gardener—why hast thou planted me in this garden?
Was I meant to be loved by thee?
Or was I but a fleeting remembrance—a passing reflection of the golden melodies—thou once showed her—a concept—an idea—a momentary vessel for thy affection—meant only to carry the weight—of something never mine to hold—only to lose.
I scream—but my voice is swallowed in the stillness.
Perhaps—I do not want my echo to return.
Perhaps—the music I once carried—
was never mine to hold.
I—who cast away my own reflection—
who abandoned my heart to time’s cruel whims—believing I could exist in silence.
But even in the quiet—my heart knows the truth—
I have become nothing but a faded imprint—
a memory of something once bright—
now lost in the dark.
Gardener—why hast thou removed me from my home?
Why hast thou taken me from the soil that knew me—only to hand me to another’s arms—where I am to stab into their skin—and rot in their embrace?
And as I scream—
the echo returns not.
Now she is gone—and I am no longer thine.
I wonder—am I even a rose?
Am I but a fleeting thought?
Am I but a fading echo of something—that was never meant to be?
A whisper caught in the wind—but never meant to settle.
I let the silence take hold of me.
I surrender my echoes to the void—I leave them with no home to return to—so that I may become something greater—than a fleeting rose—something less tangible—an idea—a breath—a wish—a love that can never be touched.
And when the echo returns not—so too shall the pain—fading like the last breath of the sun—but never truly gone.
In that silence—I am free.
And the only remembrance of me—
is the scars I left in her hands.
Copyright © Demarco Pesina | Year Posted 2025
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