Echo

The moon, shaped like a Cheshire cat's smile,
hung low in the twilight sky. A single silver star
is her only companion tonight.
All the parts of life's plays are winding down to just an
elegant phrase, not but pieces of sunset poetry
and misty eyes.
The willow's monologue drifts lazily on the breeze, her
weeping arms straining to hold him in place. Loving
fingers caress his beautiful face.
In love with his own face, he ignores those gentle caresses,
that straining embrace. Loved by only an echo, he wastes
away, eyes closing in this final scene, this last act.
Allowed only to repeat, her own voice lost in his soliloquy. No
monologue for her, cursed, no true love or own verse. She
fades into the Cheshire cat's smile, alone on a bruised twilight night.