I came as an echo.
My sound, often tenuous, sometimes tepid,
festers in the hollow of my aching throat: a vessel for uncommitted actions.
I travel, ricocheting along thick foliage, stone walls, and mountaintops,
eagerly searching for a comfortable grave
in the rusted-red sky, the burnt, sinking Sun,
where the stars await my last, dissipating cry.
The moon scoops me up and
dusts my murmurs across the centuries.
I whisper to her, “I came as an echo;
I depart as ash.”