Too Late the Echo

When the Echoes Die

For months I clung to that hope: “No such thing
as too late . . .” Its echo the gravity
holding me close to that old orbit. Now
its echoes die away if not into
impossibility, then into slim
probability. Lost outside her light,
I listen for hints of hope, search shadows
within shadows without knowing not what
these distances hold outside love’s orbit.
“No such thing as too late . . .” echoes far
off, trailing into the past—such thing as
too late . . . these echoes die . . . and now spinning
into outer darkness, swallowed by these
shadows of my own making, I hear, “. . . too late . . .”

Daivd M Pitchford
18 November 2009


2 thoughts on “Too Late the Echo

  1. Lost Within Shadows

    “I’m lost within shadows cast by love,” she
    says. Love once mine, how can I convince you
    that love casts no shadows? It was not love
    but its weak vessel that brought shadow, hurt
    and confusion. This lunatic astray
    smothering love’s lamp with doubt, delusion,
    and denials in surfeit. No malice,
    but fear and fear and terror of loss, cold,
    insidious loss of faith forsaken
    to night, to blight, to another debauch . . .
    No, those shadows are not cast by love, Love,
    they were cast by my failure to love, my
    loss of faith in life’s only reality.
    Love is the light; run to the light, Love.

    David M Pitchford
    19 November 2009

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