In the North we had the cold war. Sirens screamed; we crouched under desks, thin arms covering thinner heads. We were post Pompeii petrifies waiting for a future dig. We never left an atomic shadow.
This  sums up all life-threatening fears of the Boomers, the Echoes, the A's through Z's. Of course, Boomers then were too young to worry.

We've never had planes or bombs fall from our skies (there was the Arrow disaster).
We've never had a crop blight, famine or drought.
Food has never been rationed.
Hurricanes, cyclones, typhoons or tornados don't happen here;
We get snowfalls we plow through till they melt.
We're non-tsunami. Flooding is seasonal, geographically isolated, and dealt with.
We've had no great fires or earthquakes like San Fran or London.
We've never been drafted, and only go to wars of our own choosing.
We have not been invaded or occupied;
P.E.I. has no extermination crematoriums.
We avoided Inquisitions, Salem witch hunts and Small Pox blankets.
We've had no Race Riots, but a few barricades have gone up and down.

Death comes to us as to all. Car accidents, dumb-*** accidents, and even ******. Though never expected, always anticipated. We grieve, some longer than others. It's not easy, but we manage the shock.

When the glaciers glide past the coast of Nova Scotia, on the way to New York, my generation (and probably yours) will have been replaced.

But now! We're asked to Social Distance and wash with soap and water. In Canada we have plenty of both. I'll occupy my three square feet of space for several weeks (knowing there are only 52 in a year). No complaints. No asinine TP runs. Just behaving myself, HUMANELY.

Be who you see further in time
Search along the beaten path
Higher self in mind
Opportunities arise

Recurring dreams and themes of
stepping stones with deeper tones
Echoes passed from distant lives
Duality is a cyclical sign
When life seems finite

echoes running thoroughly upon my head,
my my, these words i hear repeatedly said
lightning and thunder fumbling in my bed
a sight i see, the color red

the quiet resonance filling my ears
all that is left are cries and tears
sighed and breathed, no one hears
this halting life, in my mind, pierced

keep on screaming, they say
living always have a price to pay
so come what may
perhaps its too late to stay

Is it... Irony?
My life is language
and I have no words for you.

Erasing each little quip
before it reaches my lip
only echoes

A thousand lines for you.

The precedent muse,
and you won't see them
even if written
you won't see them
deleted.

I feel defeated

By myself and my hands
by my words
with which the short line spans

I feel deleted

Concieted

As if it's my defeat to posess.
As if the story is in reference to me.

But it was ours
and now it's not.

You won't see it.
The words won't rhyme,
because it's not our song anymore.

It's a memory
Fading into the background
Frequencies slowly dying out
against the scenery
as our ears get too old to hear them.

We'll remember differently every time
we think of it again.
Until it's different again.
Over and over,
until the echoes are a whole new chorus.

A different memory.
And the spark will be dead again.
In another new way.

I'll always be sorry.
Then I'll remember it
and type it, and delete it.

And we'll forget it, but we won't.
We'll hear the echoes
and won't have the words.

Deleted.

A thousand strands of
       beautiful woven death.

Though they hang like
           silk nets holding


the suffocating twine of eternity.


Each one is eventually severed,
       and bleached filaments

gather below, static and devoid
                            of deaths adulation.

What was well kept,  is now
            discontinued echoes.


No longer the adulation of
           obliteration,

      just void less inconsequence.