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Echo's Spiral Inward
An echo is felt, touched, recalled,
it drums against our hearts,
strikes softly upon the ringing
shell of being.
An echo hammers upon an open door,
it is unconcerned with any closeted desires,
it is not ours to interpret.
Echo's image comes to us
wrapped within a blossoming,
an ever-opening vowel of vocalic enticement.
Lily-padding slippers tread lightly
yet step loudly upon the mind.
I welcome all dark flowers,
their language is throb and vibration.
I am awakened by the sensual stem,
pulled up into an erotic drumming,
resounding echo's don, the flesh of myself.
Echo is the face of memory,
it is the naming of names,
Echo returns our call
whether spoken or not.
For a moment we tremble like a leaf
that the wind impartially fondles.
© 33 mins ago
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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