Bygones..

Echoes of the bygones.
And, the walls that ceaselessly approach.
Distressed with a dry hope,
Still trying to squeeze some of those.
Sightless,
leading everything to black again.
Shrivelled everywhere,
In the shallows and the deep,
On the doors and the keys.

A limpid pool, a souvenir,
Disheartening but surreal.
Those spine-chilling strokes,
to and fro,
Crawling everywhere.
Anticipating, eyebrows drawn together.
Sometimes,
Sometimes they pretend to depart though,
they happen to assemble a hit.
Making the echoes go distant,
unleashing a heart that's frigid.
With a dance so vigorous,
astonishing,
to the rhythm of the ripples.