I still hear the echo
of what once came to
me by night
not the whole sound
only bits and pieces
memory rescues from
the refuse of the past
dim now with the shards
of what once clung to
memory
causing a cringe if
not a howl
but here the voice
in the dead of night
when at the darkest hour
I wake shaking
left to ponder what it meant
and if it still means
anything now
an echo of an echo
I cannot pin down
to its source
or even gauge its
true intent
though as I toss and turn
I feel the burn again
the tender flesh
scalded and soothing
a touch from a time prior to that
an echo of an echo of an echo
I cling to
hold on to
when I have nothing else
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