Come Back. Over.


Who cared? Who cares?
Who learned? Who learns?
Who fails to learn

who cares who fails
to learn this far down
their very own rabbit hole?

Grubby weathered report
holed up in a cornered pocket.

Darkness. Silence. Stillness.

Out of echoes of memory.
Send me some fresh news.

Come back. Over.
Repeat: send memories of echo.
Come back. Over.

Remember that day
we swore to bring down
the house?

About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on March 11, 2020, in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 4 Comments.

  1. You were echoing in my mind when this post echoed in my notifications. I love the synchronicity and serendipity of the Universe.

    Liked by 1 person

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