© 2017 Charles Freeman


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Generational Echo


I hear your words, and they’re coming out of my mouth.

Twenty years long gone, and still you’re there,

Like a spiritual ventriloquist, your hand up my shirt, waving my arms, nodding my head.


I am but and automaton,

Stumbling and groping at free will,

Clinging to the illusion that I am not but an echo of all that has come before.


This is the song that does not end…

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