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…

If you want to tell me how much you love my work, please do.


© 2017 Charles Freeman

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