Poetry

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There are echoes in my mind.
Source unknown, hard to find.
Where are they hiding?
Their time, they are biding.

But where are they from?
Surely they are not from God's kingdom.
They are from the past, some distant, some near.
Some are horrible, others dear.

So why do they taunt us, why do we look back?
Something compells us, that's a fact.
An idea or something wonderful flashes before our eyes.
Something wonderful, or is it something we dispise?

It is an echo
Like opening a window.
It is one opened to an illusion so nice
I am being deceived; I think it'll suffice.

But who am I to tell?
I know one who can, and within me dwells.
He alone is my rock,
And with whom I must walk.

He alone can help me
Be what he wants me to be,
He will calm the echoes within our minds,
For he is gentle and kind.

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