art by banksy





lost echoes of our love …




In the garbage heap of torn dreams,


long doused embers now cold and dead,


lie festering wounds, choked by dread.




Lost echoes,


whip up raw wounds, tearing at the scabs excruciatingly slow,


flayed by dimmed memories of long ago,


twisted, mangled emotions in our garden where flowers no longer grow.




Lost echoes,


creeping along life’s blade,


skewered sunlight condemned to the bleakness of the shade,


leaving a cowering form, torn apart, and afraid.




Lost echoes,


brewed in a chalice of once sprinkled kisses,


simmering on the furnace of burnt out wishes,


separated by deep crevasses, slipping into today’s yawning fissures.




Lost echoes,


now mere incomprehensible trashed thought,


charred, stuttering, a love reduced to absolute nought,


in life’s bazaar, where love is not love, but a commodity to be haggled over and bought.




Lost echoes,


dimming, dragged down bleak alleyways of curdled hate,


blinded by destiny, all hope lost to the tick-tocking clock of fate,


knowing now that it is all much too late.




Lost echoes,


unfeeling, just numb streaming tears,


burdened by the hopeless detritus, of far away splintered fears,


our shells, this life we carry, into the crowd as engulfing flames sears,


while we stumble,

while we fall through the cracks, as agony chuckles and leers,


at the hopelessness of all these days and months of the passing years …




art by banksy


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