Break The Echoes Poem by Erwin Maramat

She

a scented mist

amorphous

to the world, a deer,

not the one basking in a headlight

in a trance

confused

not that, not any of that.

But a deer

in the crosshairs

of hunters itching to pull a trigger,

inching ever closer,

no beats, for they have flatlined

way before they are even dead.

She

their Lola Montes

their Matahari

those poor old ladies

not her

just deluded impressions of her

eyes that burn through walls

that is her

their words ephemeral,

with life expectancy comparable to an ether,

but she is immortalized

by

her will

immovable

by insidious impressions.

She

E.D.Maramat/Erwinism