Echos

As I waited for that pig in the sky
stared hard at Mr. Blue sky and bid him farewell... and goodbye.
I'll be here always, a shadow on your page of life, wishing you'd forgive
the stain, wishing I'd understood art then, wishing I could have shaped more than a blot.
I hope it fades quickly in time, knowing I'll count each moment you do not collect each up to dispair again and again.
What could have been is not and if only what I should have been had been maybe what should not have been would not have been.
Does the singing songbird know the hour grow late and the dark near as he scatter his song? His dark eyes fritter to the
hourglass and yet he continues to sing but of what beauty to come? Of what light?
Perhaps the songbird understands what we do not, sings of beauties unseen and wishes they were seen, and that we understood
what we destroyed with each falling grain and ticking hand.
Perhaps there comes an hour when the songbird senses the final tick of the clokc, the heavy tone sounding the hour had come. Does the
songbird warble near the end? The crash of the hourglass. Time had stopped, a hazy halflight of hell and horrors. I cling to my shade, the only friend
in sight. I shudder in fear as never before as the false sense of immortality fades leaving the songbird voiceless among the echoing tress.
I try to call, again and again but with each attempt I am shaken by echos of the past. Each echo a memory of that flying pig,
twisting in its own special way to stab me again and again for what I could not be. I scream out silently again and again but I have no voice,
thrashing with terror until I can no longer discern the foreboding forest from the echos of madness that draw me in, nearer and nearer...