where does the last of the echo go?
when we toss our voice from our lips,
our message grows and grows
across mountain peaks and canyon heads –
but eventually, it grows weak, tiptoeing
the journey of our words begins to slow –
does it slip and fall in a pile of
dust rotating around the sun?
or does it silently come back to us,
returning from where it had first begun?
this poem was inspired from one of the stanzas in my poem “grim reaper, sews”