The Echo. Poem by Tony Shannon

The Echo.
Everywhere it is, eternal as the ones who made it.
They created it and it created them. It is the corruption of the Good and it is the darkness of the Light. The End in Evil- It is False. It is an idea that was born on the day of Nine Lives. It is you and me- intrinsically.

It is the clamour and the din, it blocks out the cause, makes you blind and deaf, makes you sin. It lives in a repulsive shell, it’s falsity benign to those who have no ears. The pathetic attempt at destruction is its cause- the Echo is all around you, a warp in time. It wants to be mine.

Misfortune is it’s smile
Death is it’s desire.
Design- or you will fall
Buried without a chance
Sin was your lance.

Your pain is no justification, thirty five is your number.
Prophecy does not belong to you- you exist as an image.
This is not me- I write not to myself.
You are the one who I address because you are the one who was foretold by the ones.
Circus dialogue and chattering
Was created by them, the ones who broke themselves over us on the day of Dawn.
Symphonic designs are not yours… they echo over time to meet me head on. So that they can ensnare you, they are the servants of his design.

The Echo wants me- so he can catch you in what was mine.
He’ll learn a lesson he never before conceived of.
Surprise.
In unreality his reign is eternally false. He wears a mask that fools all.
And he is part of all.
Deign not to launch from the pad
Because that will make you sad.
Be an anchor for your kind.
This will not conclude.
This is just the Interlude.

Echo, repeat, the Echo.
Echo.