Do echoes speak the truth?
Of empty stages
And fingers clutching broken strings,
Or clutching crack keys
The empty sockets
Where bulbs won’t sin
Souls that play like ghosts
To empty chairs
With only the memory
Of faces once there
Sad creaking wood
Swaying to worn melodies?
Do the echoes still ring clear
Or are they muddle phrasing
Over done,
Never certain
Of their last repeat
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