Stuck in a rut, a ditch,
Then again, maybe a canyon.
I yell and my words return
Echo after echo, a ricochet.
Each time I try to find my voice,
It rebounds a fainter rendering of itself.
Reminiscent of a story,
One told ad nauseam until it is no longer heard.
Story after story,
Poem after poem,
Where does the voice hide?
How does it break out of it’s own mediocrity?
It calls in hushed tones,
Knocks at the threshold waiting to be let in,
Though somehow I’m too late to answer.
So I wait, peering through the peephole,
For the sound of my voice,
To knock on the door again,
This time I’m ready.
~~ Dominic R. DiFrancesco ~~