war.

empty space answers by echo.
The distortion is alien and
exposes the contorted
nature of sound.
Pauses stretch for miles and
reach far beyond the
bottom of a red canyon
vortex.
But there is always a movement.
Without touch and without flexibility,
the wind is imperceptible.
Where does clear coercion go?

The emptiness that rings
loudly is just the
call of conscience.
It speaks to remember
nothing much at all.

Imposed interpretation takes
needle-less trees and spins them pine.
But, they were really Aspen after all.
The filters of possibility
forsake all illogical purities.
But, there is nothing perceptible left to distinguish.

A mirror reflection is a repetition.
The image and the object are indifferent.
Illusory opposition comes crawling in
gray shades of admonition.

The echoes grow rougher,
more inane and heartless.
Each replica is less perfect
and farther from the good.
A downward spiral begins
between the real and the projection.
Now there are two instead of just one.
War.