My voice echoed off the
walls, bouncing back to me
in the unfamiliar, pleading
tones it apparently left with.
Is that how I sound?
That worried, tearful, lonely
sound? That’s my voice coming
back to me?
It can’t be. I’m cooler than that.
I’m semi-confident and sort of sure,
brave and good-hearted,
moral and kind, polite and
That can’t be my voice coming
back to me from the depths of
the darkness. It simply can’t be.
But there’s no one here to ask.
No one to hear my echo with me.
I got into this cave myself,
I didn’t ask anyone to come along
(Although, who was there to ask?)
It’s my fault. It’s my voice. I followed
it in here.
I’m not alone. My voice
comforts me, the two of us, in it
together, thick and thin, thick as
thieves, comrades, compatriots,
brothers in arms.
One can only laugh, sing, cry,
with their echo for so long however,
eventually, the voice tires and
quiets, and the listening for
new voices begins.
Something new, someone new,
a voice to shore oneself up,
to help hoist the burdens,
and illuminate a path through
the darkest corners.
Someone’s voice to overpower the echo.
Someone’s voice to shoo the dark.
Someone’s voice to stop the worrying.
Someone’s voice to dry the tears.
Someone’s voice to stop that lonely sound.
Someone other than me.