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…