The Echo

I am the echo of the song
the paper figure of the cloth
to whom do I belong
what do I set at nought
	when all are gone.

He gave me a road that is long
I am the dust of the moth
where do I belong
when wings won't carry me forth
	from all who are gone.

Displaced I sit, forlorn
broken with too much thought
when do I belong
if I can't play my part
	for all who are gone.

How do I carry the wrong
I think I did, but did not
to what do I belong -
in circumstances caught -
	because all are gone.

For all the things I long
but cannot have, I rot
where I do not belong
mulling all I was taught
	by those who are gone.

The echo only of the song -
pale imitation - burden of my lot
where I now belong
my life so dearly bought
	for nothing, all is gone.
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